


Heat Wave

by thegraytigress



Series: Heart of the Storm [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Steve Rogers, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 97,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of New York, Black Widow is assigned a new partner: Captain America. When their quinjet is shot down on their first mission, they're stranded on a remote, tropical island. Keeping the mysterious artifact they were sent to retrieve away from their enemies is hard enough. But keeping each other alive? That's going to require trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger,_ _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language, violence)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is part one of _Heart of the Storm_ , the prequel to "Red Rain". Obviously you don't need to read all the subsequent stories for anything in this one to make sense, but if you do (or have), it might put a different perspective on things, knowing where stuff is going. This is Steve/Natasha, but they aren't really in a relationship per se in this story. This one is going to chronicle their first (disastrous) mission together as partners, so expect lots of bickering, not seeing eye to eye, running around half-naked on a tropical island (yay!), unresolved sexual tension (which we know gets resolved later ;-)), fighting, and both of them realizing that this whole partnership/friendship thing isn't that bad.
> 
> This story falls right after the events in _The Avengers_ so about a year before "Red Rain". No other supporting cast aside from brief appearances by Fury and Clint. There will be talk of past Steve/Peggy and Clint/Natasha. While this story is rated T, I feel I need to warn new readers that everything onward in _Heart of the Storm_ is strongly rated M, so be advised. I'll be using and abusing comic canon as usual.
> 
> Lastly a special shout-out to the Romanogers group on Twitter (especially Vejibra) for letting me bum inspiration for this one from a few hot and awesome gifs of Steve and Natasha being trapped on a desert island together. I hope I can do that some justice!

Natasha hated waiting.

She sat in the hallway outside Nick Fury’s office.  She’d been there for almost thirty minutes, staring unhappily at the gunmetal gray and chrome walls that dominated the décor of the Triskelion.  She couldn’t see inside his office; the windows were tinted darkly to suggest the area was secure, and even if they hadn’t been, the blinds were drawn.  It was hard not to keep glancing, even though it was stupid and futile.  It was almost like a nervous tic.  She was normally an expert at staying still and composed.  She’d been trained that way, to remain cool and emotionless, so much so that feelings of anxiety or fear rarely manifested themselves on her face, let alone inside her.  Patience was a requirement in her position: waiting for the moment to get what she came for, the moment to take the shot, the moment to twist her mark, or the moment to make the kill.

However, this was really aggravating.  It wasn’t simply because she was busy and this was frankly wasting her time.  She’d recently come back from yet another quick mission to reclaim Chitauri weaponry and armor that had been pilfered from New York during the clean-up and sold on the black market.  She’d been looking forward to a few hours of rest, a shower and some sleep to start, maybe some _actual_ downtime (of which there’d been frighteningly little since the Avengers had saved the world three weeks ago).  But she hadn’t even made it to the barracks inside the Triskelion before the call had come from Maria Hill that Fury wanted to see her.  So without her shower, without even a chance to change out of her suit, she’d trod up here, willing some measure of composure from _somewhere_.  Her irritation had been tempered by concern (not worry – Black Widow didn’t worry) when she’d leaned from Hill that Fury was meeting privately with Barton before he would meet with her.  She hadn’t seen Clint much over the last few weeks since they’d stopped the Chitauri invasion together.  She’d been busy with her assignments, and she assumed he’d been as well, although it was odd that they had been sent on missions separately.  They’d been partners for years, ever since she’d joined SHIELD.  Granted, these operations hadn’t been serious enough to require the efforts of two top-level agents, so that probably explained why they’d each been dispatched alone.  And there was abundant work to go around; the mess in New York was substantial in terms of property damage, loss of life, and political catastrophe.  SHIELD was working feverishly to contain everything, from the corpses of the dead aliens to their devastating weaponry to hints of the truth escaping the tight reins of plausible deniability to public opinion, which was strongly for the Avengers but pretty much against everything and everyone else related to the government and its security agencies.  The battle could have gone so much worse, and people seemed to realize that.  The internet and news outlets were literally flooded with images of Captain America rescuing and protecting civilians, Thor battling swarms of enemies, the Hulk boldly attacking the massive leviathans laying waste to Midtown, and Iron Man guiding a nuclear warhead into the portal allowing the army access to their world.  The Avengers had quickly become symbols of good, heroes and legends.

She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.  It was her job to complete her missions from the shadows, to steal without being detected, to find the intel without leaving a trail, to kill without her target knowing the strike was coming.  Get in and get out.  Now her face was plastered all over the world, right up there with the likes of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark and Thor.  It wasn’t daunting, exactly, but it wasn’t pleasant, either.  Frankly, she was starting to wish everyone would simply move on.  It seemed as though there might be a push to do just that.  The Avengers had scattered.  The initiative Fury had championed to form them was already being dissected and assessed for fault, and the World Security Council was probably a vote or two away from tabling it completely.  But, like it or not (and she really _didn’t_ like it), New York had changed _everything_.

Case in point.

The door to Fury’s office finally opened, jerking Natasha from her thoughts.  She looked up from where her hands were neatly folded in her lap to see Clint storm out.  For a moment, his steps slowed and their eyes met.  He looked… ragged.  Haggard.  Unwell.In the weeks since she’d last been with him, it was almost like he’d fallen apart.  Like he’d been worn down and peeled away.  His hazel eyes were ringed in lilac shadows that suggested a definite and persistent lack of sleep.  His mouth was set into a tight, thin frown.  His complexion was pale and his jaw was unshaven.  Even his posture seemed slumped when he’d always walked so tall and strong before.  From the minute she’d met him on the other end of his gun five years ago, she’d never associated him with… _defeat_.  But that was how he looked now.  Defeated.  Lost.  _Broken._

Clint sighed, and his shoulders fell even further.  “He’s ready to see you.”  His voice was low, gruff, and strained with emotion.  This wasn’t him.  Not the cool, confident soldier who stood on high with a sharp eye on everything.  Not the man who’d taught her how to walk away from her past.  Who taught her how to be better, more than a spy and a seductress for evil men.  This was _not_ the man who’d gone to task for her, who’d insisted she receive another chance, the benefit of the doubt, who’d taken her away from that hell and brought her into his better world.  His bed.  His confidence.  How could he have _degraded_ so much in the last few weeks?

And how could she have not known it?

She was on her feet before she thought to stand.  “Clint,” she said, shaking her head and struggling to get over her alarm.  “Clint, what’s going on?”

He didn’t answer.  She could see his jaw flex, his teeth grinding.  “Just go in, Nat.”

She wasn’t going to be brushed aside like this.  Now she _was_ worried.  She didn’t move fast enough to grab his arm before he turned and starting walking angrily down the hallway.  Jumping after him, she called, “Clint!  Wait!”  He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow.  Frustrated, Natasha snatched his wrist.  “Barton, what the hell’s going on?”

“Drop it,” he snapped.

She was pretty sure she could count on one hand the number of times Clint had ever spoken to her like that.  It was a low, seething thing.  A warning.  He glared, resembling a cornered animal that at any moment might lash out at a perceived threat.  She couldn’t quite believe he perceived _her_ as a threat.  He was the only one who never had and hopefully never would.  She shook her head, softening her expression and her tone, stowing her own anger and worry.  “What’s wrong?”

Something broke in Clint’s eyes.  Something raw and aching.  “I’m out.”

She didn’t understand.  “What?”

Every muscle in Clint’s body was taut with rage and grief.  “I’m _out._   Fury’s benching me on the results of my psych eval.”  Her stomach dropped, and her eyes widened.  After Loki had gotten his hands on Clint, brainwashed him and forced him into serving his ambitions, Clint hadn’t been the same.  She’d known that.  As busy as she’d been with her own work, she’d known the experience had hurt him badly.  She knew a little bit of what that sort of thing was like.  Just as he’d said when they’d finally gotten him back from Loki, she knew what it was like to be unmade.  She knew what it was like to be programmed and then reprogrammed to be someone and something else.  He’d hidden the pain, of course, locked away the grief and the guilt.  He’d thrown himself into the battle and then into the clean-up efforts afterward, like keeping busy and focused could ward away the nightmares.  She knew it could.  And she knew he’d been seen by medical.  He’d mentioned something a couple of weeks ago about needing to visit a staff psychologist.  But she’d had no idea things had escalated this quickly.

Clint sniffed.  His breath was half a shudder, half a sigh, like he was trying to hold himself together.  _He_ was trying to hold himself together.  The world was still goddamned upside down.  “Yeah, apparently I’m a walking, talking threat to myself and everyone else.  PTSD.  Flashbacks.  Compromised judgment.”  That wasn’t possible.  Clint was never compromised.   _Never_.  “And the Council has decided from up on high that that’s too much of a risk, so I’ve been relieved of active duty pending a full psychological assessment.  My new job is to plant my ass on a bench and stay there until the docs decide what to do with me.”

 _No._   “That’s not–”

“Fair?” Clint harshly finished for her.  “No shit, it’s not fair.  But we all know life’s not fair.”  That was a bunch of conciliatory shit, and he had no qualms about sneering over it.  He breathed heavily for a bit after that, practically trembling, and Natasha was too shocked to manage anything.  Finally he gathered himself, swallowing so thickly that his Adam’s apple jerked.  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and she watched unhappily and uselessly.  _Helplessly._ There was no sense in asking if he fought this.  Of course he had.  And it hadn’t done a damn bit of good.  _Of course it wouldn’t._

He sighed again, and it was less shaky.  Less rattled.  He nodded once.  “He’s waiting for you.”  Then he turned and continued.

“Clint,” Natasha called, but he didn’t stop.  He turned the corner at the other end of the hallway and was gone.  She was left alone, reeling and anchorless.  She didn’t need Clint now like she had, not even close, but damn if this didn’t hurt.  This on the tail of Clint essentially being kidnapped, of having to face him in combat, of the pain of seeing him unwillingly fighting and killing friends and comrades for evil.  She gotten him back only to lose him again.  Clint was out of the game.  Relieved of active duty.  Her partner was finished for now.  Maybe forever.  _No._

And her boss wanted to see her.  At this point, she was starting to have a sinking suspicion about why.

Natasha breathed shortly through her nose, gathering her emotions behind a cool, impassive mask.  Clenching her fists at her side once more before loosening her entire frame, she lifted her chin and headed back down the hall.  At the door to Fury’s office, she knocked.  “Come in,” came Fury’s muffled command, and she drew a deep breath and headed inside.

The room was huge, airy, revealing a bright blue sky through the expansive windows surrounding it.  Fury’s desk was in the corner, and the SHIELD Director sat at it, his chair turned to face the view.  They were quite high over the Potomac River, so it was an impressive, revealing the shining waters below and the stretch of Washington, DC beyond it.  Natasha strolled across the room.  Normally she didn’t have much trouble containing what she was thinking and feeling, but she couldn’t help the frustration and irritation (betrayal, if she was honest with herself) bubbling beneath the surface of her calm.  Furthermore, she wasn’t terribly inclined to mask it.  “You wanted to see me, sir?” she said once she was in front of his desk.

Fury turned.  He was as he always was: dressed in black leather, confident, and invincible.  Natasha knew she was one of the best spies in the world; she had no delusions about the depths of her talent in manipulation and murder.  Compared to Nick Fury, however, she knew she was a fledgling.  Fury had been playing the game for so long that she’d never seen him switch off, let alone falter, let alone _lose_.  Perhaps he had only one eye, but he saw things no one else did, angles and clues and plots, and he kept secrets like no one else could.  He was a master, managing the huge sprawl of SHIELD like he’d been born to do it, and he was one of the few people who Natasha wholly respected.  One of the few who intimidated her.  And, as crazy as it seemed, one of the few she trusted.

At least until now.  Hence that sense of betrayal.  “You want to sit?” Fury said, gesturing to the empty leather chair on the other side of his desk.  Natasha glanced at it warily for a moment, making a show of considering it to not so subtly broadcast exactly what she knew and how unhappy she was with it.  Fury smiled thinly.  “I’m guessing you ran into Barton on the way in.”  Natasha coolly appraised him.  She wasn’t going to offer anything.  Let him make his excuses.  Fury sighed, bracing his elbows on his desk and folding his hands together.  “It wasn’t only my decision.”

“It couldn’t have been anyone else’s,” Natasha countered.  She knew Fury answered to others, to the Secretary of Defense and the World Security Council in particular, but when it came to the daily logistics and operations of SHIELD, his word was law.  Benching a level eight agent was an executive order that could only have come from him.  “You can’t do this to him.”

“He’s a danger to himself and anyone he’s working with,” Fury responded matter-of-factly.  “I can’t ignore the psych eval.  Barton’s in a dark place.  It’s understandable, and nobody blames him for it.”

She knew bullshit when she saw it.  “The Council’s been waiting forever for an excuse to get rid of him,” she accused.  Clint had told her this once after a night of frustrated passion.  Ever since he’d defied his orders to eliminate her and instead brought her back to SHIELD with the intention of rehabilitating her, the Council had considered him something of a rogue operative.  He was dangerously good at what he did, easily the best sniper and marksman SHIELD had to offer and likely in the world, and that made him a valuable asset.  She knew Clint had taken quite a bit of heat for sparing her life, and it had been his value that had saved his career.  And Fury.  This was probably the straw to break the camel’s back.  Forced or no, Clint’s aid had allowed Loki to kill thousands of people.  “They want him out, and this is just giving them a reason.”

Fury sighed.  “Natasha–”

“He needs this, Nick,” Natasha interrupted.  She knew Fury well enough to drop the formality.  “You don’t know how much.  Taking this away from him is only going to make it worse.”

“What he needs is time to recover, to get his head on straight.”

“That’s his call, not yours.”

“And I don’t trust him to make it,” Fury declared.  His eye narrowed.  “He’s not in his right mind.  He hasn’t been since Loki took his will.”  Natasha tightened her face into a scowl to disguise her grimace.  As much as she wanted to deny it (and she _would_ ), part of her couldn’t accept how low and devastated Clint looked.  “This isn’t open for discussion.  If there was a way to get around it, maybe I would take it.  But I can’t.  And, frankly, I don’t want to.  I’m trying to protect him.  You’re worried about the Council having a reason to shut him down?  Try him losing it on a mission or screwing up something vital because he’s all screwed up like this.  It’s too risky.”  Fury shook his head as though he was reaffirming his decision to himself.  “No.  Barton’s grounded until he’s cleared by the shrinks.”

That was that.  Fury’s tone suggested further debate would not be tolerated.  She knew she and Clint had some leniency, leeway, and influence when it came to things like this.  They were Fury’s best and most reliable agents and Avengers besides.  But even they couldn’t change his mind.  As she’d suspected, Clint had tried and failed.  It was unlikely she could do anything further, and the professional in her wouldn’t compromise herself by trying.

An uncomfortable moment of silence passed.  Fury was never one to let things like that dissuade him.  He sighed quietly.  “I’m reassigning you.”  _Of course you are._ That sinking suspicion grew less heavy and instead turned sharp.  Now Fury did look a tad hesitant, but he went on.  “Losing Barton actually comes at an opportune moment.  A few days after the Chitauri invasion, I asked Steve Rogers to join SHIELD.  He agreed.”

Despite how quickly she normally understood things, this failed to make sense to her for a second or two, mostly because it seemed pretty damn crazy.  She was reeling already from what they were doing to Clint.  Now they wanted her to…  _An opportune moment.  Who the hell do you think you are?_ She narrowed her eyes, brow furrowed.  “You want to partner me with Captain America.”  It wasn’t a question, at least not one about the fact of it happening because she hadn’t misheard or misinterpreted.  “Captain America.”

Fury leaned back in his chair with a creak of leather.  “Yes.”

Shockingly, it didn’t take long for her numbed brain to come up with an answer to that.  “No.”

Fury steepled his fingers together in front of his chest.  He wasn’t at all off put by her curt rejection of the idea.  “You’ve already fought with him.”

“For, what, two hours?” Natasha retorted hotly.

“You two worked flawlessly together to protect civilians and keep the Chitauri on the streets busy during the battle.  You already have the foundation of a working relationship.”

“I already have a working relationship!” she insisted.  “You want to split me from my partner, who I’ve been with for _five years_ , who I know so well that I can anticipate his every movement in the field…  You want to do this so I can what?  Teach Rogers how to be a SHIELD agent?”

Again, Fury was not stopped by her sharp tone.  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”  Natasha could hardly believe this.  Fury leaned forward again, and his hands ended up back on his desk.  “Look, having Captain Rogers working for SHIELD is huge, both because of what he can do and because of the image he brings.  Rogers has clout, a lot of it, particularly with the American people.  Even if he’s not directly leveraging it, the symbolism is important for political reasons, especially since things are more than a little tense right now for SHIELD with the government and the public alike.  Both Secretary Pierce and the Council are willing to do pretty much anything to get him on board just to secure that.”

She didn’t care about bullshit political nonsense.  “I don’t see how partnering him with me fits into it.”

Fury smiled thinly.  “You’re the best we have, Agent Romanoff.  There’s no one better equipped to get him familiar with how we do things.”

“You mean, no one better equipped to pull the fleece over his eyes on what we really do,” Natasha said coldly.

This was the first time something she’d said had made an impact.  It wasn’t a good one.  Fury’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed darkly.  “And what is that we really do, agent?  Because I was under the impression that we’re trying to protect the world.  Captain Rogers is a valuable asset in that mission, one I intend to use to its fullest potential.  I didn’t think he’d agree to help us, but he did, and I’ll be damned if I let the chance to get him under wing slip away because you’re pissed off about your orders.”  Natasha was angry enough that she actually opened her mouth to object further, but Fury was moving on and denying her the chance.  “He’s seventy years behind in _everything_.  Forget just history and culture.  He’s seventy years behind in war tactics, in weapons, in technology, in how the world _works._   So, yes, I want you to teach him.  Help him get his feet on the ground and find his bearings.  Show him black ops.  Show him SHIELD protocols.  Show him the latest and greatest.  Show him how to fight in a world that doesn’t honor the rules of engagement.  Show him how to be a weapon instead of just a shield.”

An image of Rogers leading the civilians to safety, blocking blows meant to maim or kill innocents with that ridiculous shield of his, danced in her head.  Show him how to be a weapon?  The man fought like he _was_ a shield himself, using his body to defend rather than destroy.  She knew the tales of Captain America just as well as anyone else.  At first she’d thought it was all a bunch of American propaganda, but after meeting Rogers and fighting under him during the invasion, she’d quickly realized the rumors and legends were absolutely (and sadly) true.  Captain America stood for bravery.  Valor.  Integrity.  Purity.  He’d sacrificed himself to stop HYDRA from destroying the world during World War II.  He was the world’s first superhero, the world’s best soldier, a man who planted himself directly between evil and good and refused to move.

Those ideals he so perfectly symbolized were all grand in theory, but they withered stupendously in the face of reality.  Terrorists didn’t care how honorable you were.  Tyrants didn’t give a damn about nobility.  She’d been taught her whole life to strike hard and first, to hit when the enemy was weak and unprepared, not when she was certain he was ready for a fair battle.  She’d been taught to make sacrifices, to prioritize her end game and identify what and who was expendable.  She’d longed learned that the ends always justified the means.  Maybe that wasn’t the _honorable_ way, but that was how she survived, how she conquered.  She wielded lies like knives to cut through to the heart of things.  She wielded her body as a weapon to turn men into pawns and victims.  Granted since being rescued from the KGB she hadn’t employed those tactics as often, but she was always prepared to.  She was Black Widow.

And he was Captain America.

This was _never_ going to work.

Anger hadn’t availed her, so she let how tired and worn she was overcome her face.  “Sir, with all due respect, Rogers and I…  We don’t complement each other at all.  You’re right; I did fight alongside him.  I know what he is.  He may be a hell of a leader, but he’s not one of us.  He’s a soldier, not a spy.  He’s a…”

“A what?” Fury said, almost daring her to say what she wanted to say.

She coolly cocked an eyebrow.  She couldn’t care less if this was petulant.  “He’s a boy scout.  You actually think we’re going to get along?  That he’s going to let me do things the way I do them?  Like you said, he doesn’t know anything about our world!  He doesn’t know how to fight, how to get things done.  We don’t have _anything_ in common.  The last thing I need is having to babysit him out in the field and then having him lecturing me every time I break a rule.  He’ll tie my hands.  And he’ll expect his orders to be followed, and I can’t function like that.”

“He might surprise you,” Fury reminded.

“He won’t,” she returned adamantly.  She was a master at reading people, and she’d read Rogers the minute he’d stepped off the quinjet aboard the helicarrier with Phil Coulson at his side.  Dressed like an old man, he’d been wide-eyed and eager and ridiculously polite (who the hell called anyone “ma’am” anymore, let alone her?).  However, beyond the admirable manners, beyond all the pomp and symbolism, he was a lost little boy in a huge, scary world.  She could see it plain as day in every uncertain glance and perplexed frown and distant glaze to his eyes that came when he’d thought no one was watching.  He saw everything in black and white when she lived in a world of gray.  He’d rather do things right and let the bad guys win than risk tarnishing his perfect conscience.  He would slow her down.  He would judge her.  Or, worse, he would try to instill _morality_ in her, at least his version of it.  This was pointless, and she was just going to say what she needed to say.  “I understand what you want, but it’s not going to work.  I don’t have anything against Rogers.  I’m sure he’ll make a fine SHIELD agent.  But find someone else to train him.”  _Someone who’s not his complete opposite_.  “If you feel like you need to bench Barton for a while, fine.  I can live with that.  I’ll go solo.  It’s not like I haven’t before.”

Fury wasn’t impressed.  “This isn’t your choice.”

She clenched her teeth to keep the anger and frustration from her face.  Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was so adamantly against this.  Her reasons weren’t illogical or baseless, but she’d done things she’d found disagreeable for SHIELD plenty of times in the past.  It wasn’t her place to question why.  Her role was to get the job done, complete her mission according to its directives and specifications, and she was damn proficient at that.  There was no place for emotion in their world, no place for loyalty.

Still, she couldn’t lie to herself.  She did have loyalty, loyalty to Clint.  She owed him a debt she’d never be able to repay.  What Fury wanted her to do was akin to betraying him, like she was casting him aside to take on someone new and better.  Someone who wasn’t damaged.  It made her feel like she’d spent the last five years using Barton, learning from him and taking from him, only to throw him out now and move on without him.  She didn’t want to do it.  Having spent _years_ doing just that on behalf of the Red Room, she’d vowed never to be so cold and cruel again.

Even more than any of this, though, was the fear of something unknown.  She could hardly admit it to herself, but Clint was familiar.  _Safe._   She’d known him from the minute she’d come into SHIELD, and he’d been at her side ever since.  This wasn’t to say she hadn’t worked with other people or conducted missions without him before.  And this wasn’t to say she was dependent on him.  It was simply that, in this chaotic, difficult life, he was one of the few she could truly count as a friend.  He was a confidant, a stout supporter, a lover.  It went beyond sex, beyond bearing each other’s pains and knowing each other’s secrets.  Clint understood her in ways no one else did, and he did it without her ever having to expose her weaknesses or admit her vulnerabilities.  They were cut from the same cloth, dark and burdened by their pasts.  And Rogers couldn’t be further from that.

Despite her unwillingness to say any of that, Fury knew.  He always did.  “Look,” he began, his voice and expression softening.  “Rogers needs a purpose, and we need him.  I don’t want Captain America out wandering the country with nothing to do.  He agreed to help us, but I don’t think he trusts us.  We need him to.  This isn’t about turning him into something he’s not or popping his cherry in the world of tactical espionage.  He is who he is.  And you are who you are.  But if there’s anyone in this organization I trust to show him that SHIELD has the world’s best interests at heart, it’s you.”

“Me?”

“You know what it’s like to come out of the darkness,” Fury said.  That gave her pause because it was true.  But that didn’t mean she wanted to open up about that experience with anyone, let alone Rogers.  Was that what Fury was expecting?  Her to have some sort of heart-to-heart about finding oneself again after trauma, about doing good in the world with the power of SHIELD at one’s back?  _No way in hell._   “Just give this a chance.  If it’s not going to work, if you want out, we can deal with it.  I can reassign you both.  But for right now, I want you paired with him.”

There was no sense in arguing any further.  Her eyes glazed in defeat.  “Yes, sir.”

“I have a mission that I’m assigning to the two of you.  It’s simple.  Low exposure and low risk.”

The mission was inconsequential, and she could only focus on one thing.  “Just promise me something.”  The accusation came, harsh and low.  “Promise me that you’re not throwing my partner and one of your best agents under the damn bus just so I can be the one to hold Rogers’ hand.”

Fury stared at her evenly.  If he was upset at what she was saying, it didn’t show.  He was far too hardened a spy to betray his true motives, how he was positioning his pieces on the game board to put himself at the best advantage.  To that point, she knew she couldn’t trust whatever answer he gave her, because if he was setting Clint aside to allow Rogers to take his place, he would never admit it.  That gained him nothing.  Still, as irrational as it was, she wanted to hear him say it, even if it was a lie.  “I am not throwing anyone under the bus.  When Barton clears through medical, he’s back in.”

It was the best she was going to get, the closest he could come to giving her his word.  And it didn’t make her feel one bit better.  However, there was no more time to stew about it.  At least, not right now.  There was a knock at the door.  Though there was no way she could be certain, she knew who it was.  Fury held her gaze a moment longer, firm and unyielding.  Silently reminding her that his orders stood and he expected them to be followed.  She stared back, silently reminding _him_ that she was far more capable than anyone else.  She was the best.  If she had a problem with this, it wouldn’t affect her.  _Nothing_ affected her.

Fury actually stood from his desk and walked to the door to his office.  He opened it.  “Captain,” he greeted.

Natasha closed her eyes momentarily, stiff in her chair.  “Sir,” came Rogers’ response.

“Come in and take a seat.”

She heard boots on the floor.  A moment later, Fury was back behind his desk and Rogers was right next to her.  “I believe you two remember each other,” Fury said nonchalantly with a sigh of relaxation as he settled down into his chair again.  He crossed his legs and leaned back, like he hadn’t orchestrated this entire meeting, like Natasha didn’t already know exactly where this was going.  She resisted the urge to scowl at him, instead narrowing her eyes and turning to the man next to her.

Steve Rogers looked… _different_.  And it wasn’t simply that he’d cut his blond hair shorter and into a more modern style that well complimented his features.  It wasn’t even the obviously brand new, dark blue and silver stealth combat suit he wore instead of that ridiculous (and ridiculously _tight_ ) patriotic get-up Phil Coulson had designed for him.  It was the way he was carrying himself, somehow more confident, more comfortable.  It had really been only a few weeks since she’d seen him last, dressed in plaid and slacks and a bomber jacket, climbing onto his motorcycle and heading off into the proverbial sunset.  Obviously he’d come back changed because there was something new about him.  Not just different.  _Alluring._   Along with every other female officer aboard the helicarrier, she’d noticed before that he was handsome, incredibly so, with a perfectly proportioned face, full lips, and blue eyes that were downright beautiful.  And the serum that had transformed him from a frail, sickly boy during World War II to the world’s only super soldier had done its job remarkably, incredibly, _amazingly_ well.  Even now in this looser suit, she could see the well-defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, suggesting strength and agility in equal parts and resilience even more so.  He was significantly taller than her, taller than most people, with broad shoulders and a narrow, trim waist.  And, even though she couldn’t exactly get a look right then, the memory of his ass in those blue uniform pants, well…  _Stop it._   He looked imposing and unassuming at the same time, lean and calm but so powerful.  Back then he’d stood out so much, a sore thumb amongst the SHIELD agents and techs, a fish out of water in every sense of the word.  Right now, dressed as he was with half a tentative grin coming to his lips, he looked like he _belonged_.

It took what felt like an embarrassingly long time before she remembered that looks could be deceiving.  “Agent Romanoff,” Rogers said, extending a hand clad in a fingerless glove.  He smiled wider.  It was the same smile he’d had during the Chitauri invasion.  Well, almost the same.  A frail attempt at trying to seem okay.  Fake, but a little less so now.  “Hi.  Nice to see you again.”

She wasn’t going to stand for him.  She didn’t care if he was Captain America.  She didn’t buy into the reverence and adulation that everyone else seemed to have for him.  Still, despite that refusal stampeding through her angry thoughts, she was on her feet and grasping his hand.  His grip was as firm as she remembered.  “Captain,” she greeted emptily.

“I hear we’re going to be working together,” he said.  His voice wasn’t eager, per se, but he certainly didn’t seem to have a problem with this assignment.  For some reason, that bothered her.  Didn’t he see that they were totally ill-suited for each other?  But, then again, he was Captain America.  Captain freaking America.  He brought out the best in everyone, right?  He probably thought he could reform her, no matter how dark and damaged she was.  He probably thought–

“You okay?”

 _Damn it._   “Fine.”  She pulled her hand away and sat back into her chair.  Rogers stared at her with a muddled look on his face that annoyingly reminded her of a kicked puppy.  She made a point to not so much as glance at him.

And him being him, he didn’t let it go.  “Is there a problem?”

“No.”  If he didn’t see that as a warning to back off, he was just plain stupid.  She could feel his eyes on her, roving over her, analyzing and judging.  When they’d worked together a few weeks ago, everything had happened so quickly, compressed and constricted by stress and immediacy, that there hadn’t been time to really consider Rogers as a person.  Or for him to consider her, she supposed.  Everything had been well-defined, personal relations (at least between them) distant with the monumental task at hand, and that bred amiability.  Now, as she sat motionless through his appraisal, she could sense things were quickly becoming more complicated.

Eventually he sat, too.  Fury looked between them, though his gaze lingered longer on Natasha as though to chastise her.  “Alright, now that we’re through sizing each other up,” he began tersely, “I have a job for you two.  Assuming this isn’t going to be a problem.”

What _this_ was wasn’t explicit, but they both knew what Fury meant.  Natasha smiled her best placating smile and made herself loose and relaxed in her seat, crossing her legs at the knee and folding her hands in her lap.  “Not at all, Director.”

Rogers was staring at her.  He wasn’t at all subtle about it.  And she could practically feel how uncertain he was.  She could practically _feel_ his eyes on her legs and drifting upward.  That tiny, familiar thrill settled in the pit of her stomach, and her grin turned a tad smug.  “Cap?” Fury prompted irately.

“No, sir,” Rogers finally said.

“Good.  Then consider this little jaunt a getting-to-know-you mission.”  Fury seemed a little amused with himself.  Natasha gritted her teeth behind her smile.  If this was all some sort of joke to him…  He tapped a few spaces on the touch screen of a tablet, and the display behind them came to life.  They both turned in their seats to watch the huge, flat monitor against the wall.  Natasha stole a glance at Rogers to find he still looked a tad befuddled at the technology.  _God, this is going to be a pain in the ass._ Fury was throwing data onto it.  “We need to locate and retrieve an 084.”

Rogers’ brow furrowed.  He hesitated like he didn’t want to reveal the fact that he was lost.  Natasha wanted to sigh in annoyance.  _Pain in the ass.  This is never going to work._   “What’s an 084?”

Fury turned to her, clearly expecting her to explain it to him.  She gritted her teeth and forced herself to be calm.  _Babysitting.  Holding his hand.  That’s your mission._   “An 084 is an object of unknown or mysterious origin.”

She didn’t say anything further and the quiet afterward demanded more of a discussion, so Fury went on.  “One of SHIELD’s principal goals is containment.  We get wind of something, anything, that could be a potential threat to humanity or that could be used for bad purposes, and we investigate and neutralize the problem if necessary.”  Rogers looked like he wanted to question that further, but he didn’t.  “We got a call in a few days ago from this man, Doctor Liam Halliday.”  The picture of a fairly banal, middle-aged man appeared.  He had thinning, wispy blond hair combed to the left in an attempt to hide a balding head.  A goatee turned silvery gray by age framed thin, weather-beaten lips.  “He’s a prominent Egyptologist and archaeologist, probably the best expert we have on early world societies and artifacts.  We’ve had him on our radar the last couple of years ever since it became apparent that humanity in its infancy might have had more than a few dealings with… well, aliens.”

“Asgardians?” Rogers asked.  “In Egypt?  I thought that was a Norse thing.”

“Potentially.  It could be only the Vikings documented it accurately.  It also could be that other alien species had contact with different early civilizations.  Greeks.  Incans.  Mayans.  Egyptians.  Wonders of the ancient world.  Let’s just say that the interpretation of these old religions has been thrown wildly into question by the confirmation of the existence of actual gods.”  A few videos appeared on the screen of Halliday at various recent academic lectures and symposiums.  “Halliday’s apparently been investigating the possibility of alien intervention in ancient Egyptian culture.  He’s been trying to secure funding to investigate some of the more remote or newer digs and sites for artifacts.  It wasn’t too popular an idea, so money was scarce, but he eventually got himself a grant and has been out playing in the sand since.  We kept an eye on him now and again; just because the chance of him unearthing anything of interest was remote, it wasn’t impossible.  Look what the Nazis found in Tønsberg in 1942.”

Rogers’ face darkened.  It took a moment for Natasha to make the connection, though from his disapproving scowl, it should have been more obvious.  _The Tesseract._   “Has he found something?” Rogers asked.

“We don’t know,” Fury answered.  “He was excavating a dig site near the Valley of the Kings outside Luxor.  It’s a recently opened tomb, and he and a team were down there for almost a six months.  He claims they located numerous artifacts, some of which were being sent to the British Museum for cataloguing and inspection about two weeks ago.  It seems the ship carrying them was intercepted in the Mediterranean, and the crew and cargo went missing.”

“Pirates?” Natasha asked.

Fury’s expression was unbothered, even as he brought up some images onto the screen.  A slew of gruff men appeared, nearly three dozen in all.  They were varying ages, most of them Portuguese if SHIELD’s intel was accurate.  Ugly, scared faces in rows.  She’d seen men like this before, thugs and criminals, typically not terribly smart but violent and ruthless.  As dangerous as they were, they were usually the hired help of someone far more so.  “Some of the artifacts showed up on the black market, and we were able to track them back to their sellers.  These are the pirates who we know are affiliated with this man, Álvaro Rego.”  A picture of Rego appeared.  He was the image of what one would associate with a hardened, vicious bastard.  Shoulder-length, stringy black hair framed a gaunt, severe face.  He was unshaven as though he was attempting to look crueler, his eyes dark and narrowed into a perpetual scowl.  His most recent exploits appeared in a profile beside his image.  Murder.  Robbery.  Arson.  Piracy.  “Rego’s got a rap sheet longer than the encyclopedia.  You name it, this son of a bitch has done it.  He’s been at the top of Interpol’s Red Notice for a while now.  His crew sail a commandeered Russian battle cruiser they’ve christened _A Mão Negra._   The _Black Hand._ ”

Natasha had heard of this ship.  It had appeared on SHIELD’s most wanted and kill-on-sight lists on and off for months.  Rego and his bunch had been hunting everywhere from the Mediterranean to the Northern Atlantic to the African coast, preying on merchant vessels, cargo ships, and passenger liners.  They were one of the most feared menaces in the ocean.

“Most of the artifacts have turned up, in one way or another, but there are still a few unaccounted for.  That’s why Halliday contacted us.  One of them seems to be extremely valuable.  He was reluctant to give details, at least not until someone meets him in person, but he seems… frazzled enough that it’s got me worried.”  Fury sighed and leaned forward again.  “Who knows.  It might be nothing.  It probably _is_ nothing.  But on the off chance it’s not, I want you two to reclaim whatever it is the pirates took and get a handle on what we’re dealing with.  Dangerous or not, we need to know what’s got Halliday so spooked.  Shutting down Rego and company’s a bonus, but not the main objective.”  He reached across the table to hand Natasha a tablet.  “Mission specs.  We think Rego has a warehouse in Lisbon he uses as a base of operations.  Last time the _Black Hand_ was seen, it was there.  Infiltrate and retrieve the item.”  Fury leaned back again, his chair creaking anew.  “But first head to London.  Hill’s got a jet ready for you to leave in an hour.  Halliday will meet you there to give you more specific details.  Press him for whatever information you can get.  He’s an academic type, and easily excitable, and that means he’s probably willing to flap his lips until you can shake something useful out of him.  I trust you to use your judgement on this.  If you feel this item he’s recovered needs to be in our custody, take it.”

“Take it,” Rogers repeated.  His eyes darkened slightly, and his jaw clenched.  “You mean steal it.”  He glanced at Natasha.  “You want us to steal this from whoever stole it from him.”

“In not so many words,” Fury replied.  Again, Rogers didn’t seem pleased.  He was going to have to get over whatever moral hang-ups he had about bending the rules in record time if he wanted to be a SHIELD agent.  In this world, there was no place for a conscience.  “Halliday’s aware of this possibility.  He wouldn’t have contacted us if he didn’t want our help.  It could be this item, whatever it is, is just a rare, fancy artifact worth a bundle, and if it is, return it to Halliday or the museum or whoever has rights to it.  If not, you have my authorization to obtain the item by whatever means necessary and deliver it to the Fridge for testing.  The last thing the world needs right now is another Tesseract floating around the black market.  Understood?”

Rogers stowed his reservations.  He nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

Natasha nodded as well.  “Understood.”

“Then you’re both dismissed.”

Natasha didn’t even glance at Rogers, standing smoothly and striding powerfully to the door.  She felt more than saw him linger near the desk, not speaking, obviously uncertain.  Then he followed.  The tension was ramping up before they even reached the exit of Fury’s office, and out in the hallway, she could practically feel it radiating off his form.  He wanted to say something to her.  Truth be told, she knew he was a decent guy who through no fault of his own was thrust into this mess.  And it was petty and childish, but she couldn’t make herself care.  Not with Clint shattered and a partnership to which she’d spent the last five years devoting her life all but dissolving in one afternoon.  Like goddamn water through her clutching fingers.  Frankly, it was hard to feel bad for him with that happening.  It was hard to feel _anything_ other than betrayal, anger, and resentment.

And she could read him like an open book.  She knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth to say it.  “Agent Romanoff,” he called as she headed down the corridor.  She resisted the urge to ignore him and keep going as he caught up with her.  “I just want to let you know that I appreciate you doing this.”

She was _not_ in the mood for this.  Not in the mood to be thanked.  Not in the mood to be anything other than on her way to her quarters to get cleaned up like she’d originally planned before everything had gone to hell.  Her next mission was already assigned, and she didn’t want to waste her time talking.  Her annoyance fueled her urge to strike at him.  “Listen,” she said, unable to keep her tone free of condescension.  It was thickly sweet, dripping in false geniality.  “I like you, Rogers.  You’re a hell of a soldier.  But I’m not doing anything for you.  We’re working this mission together, and that’s it.”

Rogers seemed a bit taken aback.  “I’m not sure I follow.”

To hell with what Fury said.  “I already have a partner.”

He was flustered, falling over himself to reassure her.  “I’m not trying to replace Agent Barton.  Fury told me he was taking some time to regroup after Loki and that you needed–”

“I don’t _need_ anything,” she returned tightly.  “And you’re damn right you’re not replacing Agent Barton.”

Hurt flashed in those ( _gorgeous_ ) blue eyes of his, and she made herself not notice.  His posture deflated a little.  “Natasha, I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot here.  I know you and Barton are close, and believe me, I don’t want to push in on that.  And I realize that you’re probably unhappy about this–”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“We got along just fine before, so I don’t see–”

“You don’t, huh?”  She stepped closer, enjoying the flush that spread from his neck and rose to his cheeks when she encroached upon his personal space.  He was significantly taller and stronger than her, but he was the one who slid an inch or two back.  She wondered a tad predatorily how far down his chest that blush went.  How far she could _make_ it go.  He wanted to be a SHIELD agent?  She could show him _exactly_ what that meant.

He swallowed thickly.  “Natasha–”

“Agent Romanoff,” she corrected, flipping from fire to ice in a blink.  “I’ll make this very clear for you, Captain.  We’re not partners.  We’re not friends.  We’re not taking time to figure each other out and get to know one another.  We’re not anything aside from two SHIELD agents – well, one SHIELD agent and one trainee–”  His eyes flashed at that.  “–getting a job done.  The minute we do that, this is over.”

She stared at him a moment more like she was daring him to continue this.  He did, of course.  She had a feeling this was going to be the first time of _many_ times in which she realized that Captain America never backed down from a fight.  “I’m just trying to help you.”

“You want to help me?” she said lowly, lifting her eyebrows.  He nodded.  All the emotion drained from her tone.  “Then stay out of my way.”  She turned and continued down the hall before he recovered enough from his shock to stop her.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve didn’t know what he was doing anymore.  This wasn’t to say he’d particularly known before.  He’d gone through most of his life just trying to do what was right, trying to be whatever he could be to help people, trying to protect people.  Following his heart no matter where it took him or how much it hurt him.  If that meant standing up to bullies twice his size, he did it.  If that meant offering up his money to a hungry kid or smiling a comforting smile to a girl who was being maliciously picked on, he did it.  If that meant joining the military to fight in the biggest war the world had ever known, he would try.  And if the only way to get in was to submit himself to a dangerous and difficult procedure to transform his sick, frail, small body into Captain America, well, he’d done that, too.  If the only way to protect people was to fight, he’d fight, kill if necessary.

And if saving the world had meant flying a plane full of HYDRA’s bombs into the Arctic ice shelf, _he’d_ _done it._

But that had plunged him into a vast new world that was the same in a few ways but so very different in many more, and he was completely lost.  He might not have always known what he was doing, but he’d known right from wrong.  He’d known good and bad.  He’d known his place, as a kid and a friend and a son and a soldier.  As a man.  Now…  He didn’t know anything.  Everyone he’d loved, everyone he’d _known,_ was dead or dying.  He’d lost consciousness ( _his life_ ) in the middle of a war and woken up in the future to a place teeming with technology, a world where wars weren’t fought between nations so much anymore as they were between intelligence operations and terrorists.  A world where aliens existed, gods existed, where men wore iron suits and transformed into monsters.  A world where people thrived on social media, where a man in Japan could see his girlfriend in New York instantaneously over a smartphone, where one could order anything and have it delivered from everywhere, where there was so much _excess_.  He couldn’t get over it, couldn’t get used to this bright place filled with so much noise and color and motion.  He was a man out of time.  That was what they called him.  It couldn’t be truer.

He was alright, though.  Mostly.  He could live with this.  He thought he could.  Never mind he’d lost everything.  His men.  His friends.  Bucky.  _Peggy._   Never mind he’d missed the only date he’d ever had, the only one he’d ever wanted.  He’d looked through their files, alone and despondent in his quiet apartment SHIELD had given him in Brooklyn (an apartment made to _look_ like it was from another era, just like the fake room to which he’d opened his eyes after the crash.  A lie made to make this easier, as if something like this could be made easier).  The Howling Commandos.  Morita.  Falsworth.  Dugan and Jones and Dernier.  All dead.  Gone.  Chester Phillips and Howard Stark.  Peggy was the only one left, and he’d been too afraid to call her.  And never mind that the world was radically different.  Sights and sounds and tastes and smells.  The way things _felt._ The serum had enhanced all of his senses so drastically that the _shock_ of it all was even more overwhelming.  He’d wandered his old neighborhood and found it nothing like he remembered.  He’d walked and walked, trying to reconcile this new image with memories of the streets through which he’d run on Bucky’s heels and in which he’d played stickball with Bucky and the other boys in their neighborhood.  Their haunts.  Their school and church.  His old building, demolished and rebuilt with newer apartments and condos.  Everything was bigger, newer, sleeker.  Everything was different, and he didn’t have a place here.

Hence not knowing what the hell he was doing.

SHIELD had done what they could for him, he supposed.  Tried to get him back on his feet, although to be honest he had a feeling their seeming altruism was more than a tad self-serving.  Two weeks after they’d found him in the ice and thawed him out, they’d needed someone to lead their hodge-podge team of superheroes.  They’d handed him a laptop, a bunch of files, assigned him to see a staff psychiatrist to “help him with the transition”, and sent him on his way with his mission.  Join the Avengers.  Lead them.  Save the world again.  Well, he had.  And when the fight had been over and the fallout had been reverberating throughout the world, Fury had approached him about becoming a SHIELD agent.  He’d taken a few days to think about it, days he’d spent driving without any clear direction in mind, before he’d found himself back in Times Square, accepting the man’s offer.  Since then, he’d been cooling his heels, waiting for this purpose that he’d decided he’d wanted, eager to do something to find where he belonged.  His direction.  He’d read.  Learned things.  Sketched ghosts over and over again that he knew would haunt him forever.  Spent his days alone and restless, dreaming about the past and fumbling through the present one embarrassing, frustrating moment at a time.  Dreaming about Bucky’s easy smile and the sweltering heat of a summer day at Ebbets Field and the Commandos laughing around a campfire in Germany and the taste of his mother’s stew and Peggy’s red, lush lips.  He let himself cry once or twice (hadn’t had much choice about it, honestly) but never for long because he figured if he let it all go, there’d be no going back.  No getting back up, if he let it knock him down.  He didn’t visit their graves.  He didn’t call Peggy.  The doctors and psychiatrists told him he was coping admirably.

Admirably.

And never mind how damn cold he was _all the time._   He couldn’t get warm.  The SHIELD doctors had found no lasting effects of his suspended animation deep in the ice.  All of his injuries from the crash of the _Valkyrie_ were long healed, and his body, thanks to the resilience and power of the Doctor Erskine’s serum, was fully recovered.  But he felt cold continually.  His hands and feet.  Down into the core of him.  He slept with multiple blankets, dressed in more layers than necessary, did everything he could to feel warm, even though it was well into summer and the rest of the East Coast was sweltering.  It seemed engrained into his bones, this chilly ache, and he was eager for it to just wear off (that was what would get rid of it, he supposed).  The doctors and psychiatrists had some explanation, something about a somatosensory disorder (whatever that was), and their explanation translated to it all being in his head.  That didn’t make it any easier to overcome.

But he was _coping_ admirably.

Needless to say, when Fury had finally summoned him to DC two days ago, he’d been nothing short of relieved simply because it had been something to do, something to get his mind off the threat of the past and all of the grief that would come with it overwhelming him.  Something to get his mind off the ice, off his nightmares.  He’d taken the quinjet down, found a new uniform and Maria Hill waiting for him.  She’d escorted him through the Triskelion, showing him the ins and outs of SHIELD’s massive, sprawling epicenter, and then walked him through the intake process.  If she had been at all annoyed at someone of her rank and stature being relegated to filling out his paperwork, she hadn’t shown it.  Steve had simply observed it all, trying to take it all in and reserving his opinions.  He didn’t fully trust SHIELD; Fury had manipulated him, all of the Avengers in fact, during the incident with Loki.  And he still couldn’t quite get over that SHIELD had had those HYDRA guns in storage, that Fury had been intending to use the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction.  He knew better than anyone what the Tesseract was capable of doing, the amount of limitless power held in that beautiful blue cube.  So he’d agreed to this arrangement, but he’d made it clear to Fury that he wasn’t a weapon to be used and abused.  It was more subtle, but he was pretty sure Fury had caught the unspoken subtext: he was working _with_ SHIELD, not for it.  At least not until SHIELD proved to him that it practiced what it preached, that it _was_ what it purported to be: a barrier between the evil of the world and the innocent.  This wasn’t a binding commitment, and Fury had seemed pleased with whatever Steve gave him.  It was a start, and for the first time since the Avengers had scattered, he felt like he’d known where he was going.

But then Fury had blithely informed him he was going to be working with Black Widow.

That had doused his newfound confidence like a bucket of ice water.  It wasn’t just that he wasn’t used to working with a partner.  He’d been a captain in the army, always assigned to lead rather than follow, so he was used to his orders being completed without question.  Even Bucky, who’d never stood for his nonsense and who’d been all too ready to question him when his decisions hadn’t been the best…  Even Bucky had fallen in line with the chain of command and deferred to his judgment when it came down to it.  A partnership required a different dynamic, a new type of trust, and he knew it was going to take him a bit of practice to get used to that.  And it wasn’t simply that she was a woman.  He didn’t care at all about that, respected her all the more for it, for being so strong and powerful in a world typically dominated by men (at least, it had been for him until recently).  One of the things he’d loved so much about Peggy had been her fire, her ability to overcome any and all obstacles and take command of a situation.  And Romanoff was…  Well, there were so many things about her that reminded him of Peggy.

But there was more, as well, and that was what was setting him on edge.  Steve had read her file (he’d read the files of all the Avengers) and knew Natasha had a dark past, that she’d been a spy and assassin for the KGB since her childhood.  The details were sparse and sketchy, but at one point in time she’d been at the top of SHIELD’s most wanted list, and Agent Barton had been sent to eliminate her.  Barton had made a different call, and Black Widow had come to SHIELD instead.  Steve would be flat-out lying if he told himself he didn’t think she was stunning.  She _was_ stunning, _beautiful_ , with hair the color of sunset, pale, flawless skin, a pert nose and lips rich and pink.  And her body, well…  He knew he shouldn’t be looking, but that black combat suit that barely passed for a uniform in his book made it rather hard to ignore.  She had curves in all the right places, slender and alluring, with long legs and a gorgeous silhouette.  There was so much grace and power in her body, her body that was much smaller than his but in many ways considerably more intimidating.  He’d never seen _anyone_ fight like her, with ruthless moves so skillfully executed, every inch of height and pound of muscle she had leveraged perfectly.  She danced on the battlefield, graceful and purposeful.  It was astounding.

Other than that, though, than this (probably ridiculously premature and completely embarrassing) attraction, she was a mystery to him.  She was cool and calm and obviously a master at controlling her emotions.  He couldn’t read her, and that made him feel exposed himself.  There’d been a time or two during the Chitauri incident where he’d been certain she was flirting with him (although, admittedly, his skill with women was pretty pathetic – it was entirely likely he’d been imagining it).  And then there’d been times she’d completely closed off to him and to everyone else, with the exception of Agent Barton.  It seemed obvious that she and Barton had something between them, something that wasn’t his business, but he hadn’t realized how deep it went until now because it was pretty damn obvious he was walking all over Barton’s toes by just being there.

Still, there he was.  And there she was.  And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit excited to be doing this.  Working with her.  Fighting against evil.  Standing up for justice.  _Doing_ something useful rather than sitting around that sad apartment and feeling damn sorry for himself.  It was nice, and he was hopeful that he could make this last, that he could turn her around.  He was Captain America, for crying out loud.  He could convince her that this was alright, them working together, that it could be a good thing.  He’d convinced the army to take him when he’d been a ninety pound asthmatic kid, so he could do anything.

They were taking the elevator down into the bowels of the British Museum where Halliday had agreed to meet them.  She was stiff to his left.  She was making a pointed (and not at all subtle) effort not to look at him.  And they hadn’t spoken at all since she’d told him off in the hallway outside Fury’s office.  If this was a lesson in how much one could accomplish without verbal communication, it was frustrating as all hell, and he wasn’t getting it.  He wanted to make this work, even if she didn’t.  But he didn’t have a damn clue how to do that.

“Relax.  You’re actually making me nervous.”  He was so surprised to actually _hear_ Natasha speak that at first he couldn’t formulate any sort of logical response, and by the time he thought he should say something, the elevator dinged revealing a drab, tiled hallway beneath the museum.  “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, stepping out.

Steve drew a deep breath and followed.  The area was like a maze of painted cinderblocks and fluorescent lights, the floor overly bright and overly polished.  The hallways wound around offices, storerooms, and conference rooms.  A few paintings and scenes of anthropologic interest lined the walls, and a fake plant or two adorned a couple of seating areas adding a much needed splash of green.  Natasha walked slightly ahead of him, her stride confident and purposeful as she led them to Halliday’s office.  Steve, on the other hand, felt even more out of place.  Two SHIELD agents decked out in combat gear wandering around down here would surely attract some attention, but thankfully, there was no one around, and they were unbothered.  They stopped outside a door with a sign next to it on the wall labeled “HALLIDAY, L.”, and Natasha knocked. 

The door opened almost instantly, and the man from Fury’s briefing stood there.  He seemed a tad flustered, reading glasses situated crookedly on his nose, his clothes nice but rumpled like he’d been wearing them for a couple of days.  He was tall, wiry, and he practically fit the stereotypical image of an absent-minded professor.  “Professor Halliday?” Natasha said.  She offered her hand.  “I’m Agent Romanoff.  This is Captain Rogers.  We’re from SHIELD.”

The look of relief splayed all over Halliday’s wind-beaten, ruddy face was almost comical.  If he recognized either of them as Avengers, he didn’t show it.  Steve supposed he might not if he’d spent most of the recent weeks at a remote archaeological dig.  “Oh, thank God,” he said breathlessly.  “Yes.  Here, come in.”  Halliday stood aside, never shaking Natasha’s hand but instead gesturing they enter.  The office more resembled a nest than a place of work.  Steve had never seen so much clutter, and he’d come from a time when no one had ever thrown away something that could even potentially be reused or repurposed.  In addition to numerous overloaded bookshelves, there were books piled high all over, stacks and stacks of them that nearly rivaled the mountains of papers practically covering every available surface.  His desk was hardly visible, a sea of folders, files, and other paraphernalia burying the computer.  Along the walls were all sorts of artifacts, some in cases and some not, most ancient Egyptian but a few from other places and times Steve didn’t recognize.  He couldn’t help his wide-eyed appraisal; this sort of study was something totally unknown to him, and it was just a little fascinating.

Halliday was rushing back toward his desk.  “I apologize for everything being such a mess.”  Somehow Steve doubted that was out of the ordinary.  “I just got in from Cairo a few hours ago.  Take a seat!  Take a seat.”  His voice was a tad breathless, thick with a British accent.  There were two chairs on the other side of his desk, which he hurriedly cleared of books and papers.  He grabbed a suit jacket that was draped over the arm of one of them and practically tossed it toward a coat rack.  “Either of you want something to drink?  I desperately need a spot of tea.”

“No, thank you,” Natasha responded, and apparently that was an answer for both of them.  She sat in her chair and folded her legs.  Steve was a tad too mesmerized by _that_ simple thing _(holy hell, Rogers, stop it!)_ , and he missed Halliday rushing to a room connected to his office.  Natasha glanced warningly at him, and he hastily averted his eyes as he sat beside her.

They sat in a tense silence for a moment, waiting for the professor to return.  In the quiet, Steve realized there was some music softly playing somewhere.  He made the connection that it was coming from Halliday’s computer.  Apparently the guy was into vintage (that felt wrong on so many levels) tunes.  He couldn’t help a little grunt of surprise when he recognized the melody and lyrics.  “ _We’re having a heat wave… A tropical heat wave…”_ Ethel Waters.  1933?  Or 1934?  He suddenly had an image of his mother, mending a hole in one of his pairs of trousers, humming along to the song softly playing from their radio in the dead of an icy and unending February.  _“The temperature’s rising.  It isn’t surprising.  She certainly can can-can.”  Wow._

“What?” Natasha said quietly.

“Nothing,” he responded, quelling his amusement.  And the irrational spurt of warm relief he’d felt every time he’d recognized _anything_ over the last few weeks.  “I just know this song.”

He expected some sort of cross reminder to focus, but Natasha’s face actually softened slightly, like she appreciated what this meant to him, that this simple song had delved into his memories.  “Makes sense, since this guy’s into relics,” she declared, glancing around at all of the artifacts.  “And you should feel right at home.”  Quizzically he stared at her.  “Being a relic yourself.”

It took him a beat to realize she was teasing him.  Really teasing him, good-natured and sweet, rather than insulting him.  He smiled to her smile, and it was so nice and refreshing that the tension between them almost instantly dissipated.  They both sat quietly after that, listening to the music, until Halliday returned.  He set his steaming cup down on his desk in a fairly clean spot and used the keyboard to turn his computer off.  “I do apologize.  Really.  Just trying to keep my head above water, so to speak.”  He sat in his chair and turned to face them.  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Natasha leaned forward slightly, obviously intending to run point in this discussion.  That was fine with Steve.  “Director Fury informed us that you’ve had some artifacts from a recent dig in Egypt go missing.”

Halliday’s face darkened.  “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it.  Please understand that this is a serious matter.  I intended to travel with these items from Cairo to London, but I was detained at the last moment and was forced to send them ahead.”

“We’re aware you gave a list to SHIELD and quite a few of the items have turned up and are being reclaimed by Interpol, but there’s something in particular you wanted SHIELD to locate for you.  What exactly are we dealing with here, Professor?”

Halliday sighed.  He reached inside the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a folded piece of paper.  “There were dozens of artifacts that we recovered from a particular tomb in the Valley of the Kings.  Are you at all familiar with this?”

“Familiar enough,” Natasha confidently replied.

Halliday nodded.  “This is KV5.  We’ve been digging around there for quite some time.  It’s a tomb we believe belonged to the sons of Rameses II, who was perhaps Egypt’s most powerful and influential pharaoh.  This tomb is one of the largest in the Valley of the Kings, over 120 rooms, and we’re still finding more.  I took an interest in this particular location after I discovered some writings in a lesser tomb outside of Giza that suggested that one of Ramesses’ sons might have been buried with a particular artifact.”

Natasha’s face was blank, but it was obvious she wasn’t entirely interested in the history lesson.  Halliday fished a book out from under a heap of stuff and held it toward them.  He pulled his reading glasses from the breast pocket of his Oxford shirt and put them back on, pursing his lips and making a swishing sound with them as he looked.  “Here.”  He jabbed a finger at a particular location on a map of the Valley of the Kings (although Steve only knew what it was from the labels on the page).  “This new room at KV5 I recently located based on those writings.  We got into it about six months ago, and, well…”  He smiled faintly.  “We made some remarkable discoveries.”

“Care to elaborate?” Natasha asked.

Halliday sighed, though not in irritation.  It was almost a longing thing.  Yearning.  “You’ll have to indulge me.  I have been hunting down this legend my entire career.  People thought I was crazy until recently, until Asgardians showed up in New Mexico wielding items from Norse lore.  I believed for years that aliens may have had some contact with the ancient Egyptians, that their interference could explain how such a fairly primitive culture managed to not only create some of the world’s most amazing and enduring wonders, but persevere for so long.  To put this in perspective, these people birthed a civilization that endured, no, _thrived_ for thousands of years, whereas modern societies?  They’re like a drop in the bucket.”

“And you think this is because aliens taught them how to build pyramids?”  Natasha didn’t do much to hide her doubt.

Halliday could have been insulted, but he clearly took this as an opportunity to teach an uninformed mind (or convert an uninspired thinker – either way, he was practically vibrating with excitement as he explained more).  “There was a story in one of Amonhotep’s tombs.  Faded and badly weathered, it was difficult to read and translate, but it told the tale of the Eye of Ra.”  He flipped a few pages in the book to reveal an image that even Steve recognized: a slanting eye with a long, curved lid and a black, depthless pupil.  Two other thick black lines extended beneath it, one straight and rather dagger-like and the other curling.  “You’ve undoubtedly seen this before.  It’s also called the Eye of Horus, and it’s prevalent in Egyptian culture and religion, a symbol of royal power and protection.  It can also be expressed as this.”  He turned another few pages and revealed an orange disc flanked by cobras.  “This is more interesting.  The feminine counterpart of Ra’s power.  A goddess of creation who can take many forms and even more names, a consort to the sun himself as he renews each day at dawn.  This symbolism is a tenant of Egyptian religion, pervasive in so many of their myths, stories, and ideologies.  And the Eye of Ra often appears in different ways with different interpretations, but this orange orb, so much like an actual eye…  This is what caught my attention, what led me to this project that became a life’s work.”

Natasha glanced at Steve before trying to stop this impromptu lesson from going any further.  “Professor, all we really need is a description of the item in question.”

Halliday smiled faintly, but it was sad and humorless.  “You wanted to know exactly what is we’re dealing with.  I’m trying to explain it.”  And then he went on, like Natasha hadn’t interrupted him at all.  “For years and years, Egyptologists have assumed that the pharaohs gained their god-like status from maintaining Ma’at, or the Egyptian ideal of peace, truth, and balance.  The flow of time, like the crossing of the sun across the sky.  But I started to wonder _how_ they managed that if they didn’t have some sort of power to make that happen.  A physical manifestation of the Eye of Ra.  This story I found in Amonhotep’s tomb suggested the Eye of Ra was perhaps more than just a symbol.  It spoke of it as an actual _thing,_ a gem of some sort.  Something that had fallen from the sky, shaken the earth and made the Nile boil with its impact.  Something bright orange that glowed with all the power of the sun.  A drop of sun, the story called it.  A gift from Ra himself to the world.  And it suggested that the bearer of the Eye gained power, the power of Ra.  Creation.  Protection.  Renewal.  Divinity.”

Halliday spoke faster as his story gained more momentum.  “Rameses II, otherwise known as Rameses the Great, was an amazing figure.  He brought so much prosperity to Egypt: conquests, building temple upon temple and monument upon monument, economic stability…  I wondered if perhaps he didn’t possess this gem, if wasn’t somehow helping him with these incredible feats, longevity, ascending to be a living god in the eyes of his people…”

“So what are you saying?” Steve asked, shaking his head.  “That this gem gave the pharaohs the capacity to… what?  Avoid mistakes?  Cheat death?  Make things go their way?”

Halliday nodded.  “In not so many words.”

“And you found it,” Natasha asked.

Halliday bit his lower lip and nodded.  Steve couldn’t tell if he was trying to hide something or if he was embarrassed that he actually believed this crazy story of his.  He took the piece of paper he’d pulled out earlier and opened it.  Steve saw it was very old, weathered and worn with faded writing.  “This was preserved in one of the rooms of Rameses’ son’s tomb.”  It was an image covered in symbols and hieroglyphs.  Steve squinted, leaning forward to see more carefully.  The picture depicted what he imagined was a pharaoh lifting an orange gem upward in his palm, and the sun and moon were crossing over his head in arcs.  “Rameses the Great.  And the Eye of Ra.  Once I found this a few months ago, I knew I was close.  We kept digging.  And we found it.”  He pulled something else out of his pocket.  It was a small photograph, and nestled in a velvet-lined metal box was an orange orb.  It was small, seemingly breakable, and beautiful.  The light refracted in its crystalline interior rather oddly, some of it seemingly swallowed and other areas of the rock impenetrable and glowing.  Steve knew nothing about gems and jewelry, but this looked like it would be worth a small fortune.

Halliday sighed.  “Look, agents, all of my… _boyish_ excitement aside, I don’t know if this thing has any _mystical_ properties.  Frankly, I was sending it here for further analysis by our geologists because at first glance, it just seemed like any other gemstone.  But on the off-chance it does…  Well, I would like the chance to examine it thoroughly.  I spent my life searching for this, both to prove I was right about its existence and because I’ve been hunting for evidence of extraterrestrial involvement in ancient cultures, so if this rock came from outer space… or Asgard… _wherever_ …  I want the chance to study that.”

He handed the photograph to Natasha, who studied it more closely.  Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed slightly.  “You realize that if this stone did originate from some place other than earth, or if it possesses any of the… attributes you mentioned, SHIELD will need to confiscate it.”

A grim look of acceptance crossed Halliday’s face.  “I know.  I spoke with Director Fury, and he’s prepared to allow me access to the Eye once it’s in SHIELD custody.  If it comes to that.  But first we need to get it back.  I doubt these pirates, or whatever they are, who took it have any idea what they might have in their possession.  And I came to you rather than my own government or any other agency because I know SHIELD is willing to move quickly and decisively.  I don’t want to see the Eye show up on the antiquities black market or in the hands of anyone who would abuse it, if it does have some sort of power.  It’s a treasure, not a weapon.  And I don’t want it lost to time again.”

“Understood,” Natasha replied.  “I think we know everything we need to at this point.”

Halliday looked a bit uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure if it was his place to ask but he was going to anyway.  “Does Director Fury have any leads?”

“We’ve already located the men who raided your ship,” Steve replied.  “With any luck, we should reclaim the item in a matter of hours as long as we…”  He didn’t miss Natasha’s sharp glance, and he immediately shut his mouth.  Was he not supposed to say anything?

Natasha smiled disarmingly.  “There’s no need to worry, Professor.  We’ve got this under control.”

Halliday didn’t seem bothered by the little exchange, didn’t even seem to notice.  He stood, and in doing so, he bumped into the mess on his desk.  The rattle pushed the mound of books and papers forward, the top sliding down and knocking a picture frame to the floor.  Steve crouched to pick it up where it landed near his boot.  Thankfully, the glass hadn’t shattered.  He inspected it briefly before he realized it probably wasn’t his place.  It was a picture of Halliday, much younger, before the heat and sand of the desert had aged his skin and thinned his hair.  He was standing outside a massive dig site surrounded by sand with a young woman.  She had red hair and was wearing loose clothes, as though the picture had interrupted their work.  Halliday was close to her with his arm tight around her shoulders.  She was grasping his hand and smiling.  And there were wedding rings on both their fingers.

“Sorry, Captain.  Excuse my infernal clumsiness,” the professor said, reaching for the picture.  Steve handed him the frame, and the man’s eyes grew a tad rueful, perhaps even misty, like the photo had been on his desk for ages but he hadn’t actually looked at it in quite some time.  He swept his thumb over the woman’s picture, and Steve saw then that his wedding ring was gone and had been for quite some time.  No tan line.

Halliday released a slow breath, setting the picture aside.  “Please.  I’m not above begging, but it’s vital to my research that the Eye be recovered.  This is my personal cell phone number…”

He was reaching into his pocket for a business card, but Natasha stopped him.  “We have your contact information, and we’ll be in touch if we need any further information.”

Halliday looked worried and sheepish again, wringing his hands slightly.  “Any idea when…”

“Not yet.  I’m sure Director Fury will call you.”  She nodded and smiled what Steve thought was a genuine smile.  “We’ll see ourselves out.”

The man was positively crushed, like they were talking about rescuing his _baby_ or some such and he was being forced to stay in the dark.  Considering how important this was to him, that probably wasn’t far from the truth.  Steve offered him an encouraging nod and a soft grin.  “Thank you, Professor.”

That seemed to comfort the other man, and he returned a tentative nod of his own.  Steve turned and followed Natasha out of the office and into the hall, closing the door behind him.  He didn’t make it one step away before she whirled and got right in his face.  Even though she was looking up at him, it was as if she was _looming_.  “I’m just going to say this once,” she hissed lowly.  “Never, _ever_ reveal mission details to anyone.”

Steve wasn’t willing to be beat down for this.  “All I said was–”

“Exactly what we know and when we’re going.  So if he’s in league with Rego, they now can figure out we’re coming.”

He couldn’t believe this.  It took a hell of a lot of effort for him to keep his tone low and under control.  “SHIELD checked him out!  It was in the dossier.  He has no connections to Rego or _anyone else_ with any sort of criminal record.  He’s clean.”

“Nobody’s clean,” she argued.  “Just because we didn’t find the connections doesn’t mean they’re not there.  Maybe back in the war you could get away with stupid crap like this, but here and now, it gets you killed.”  Steve flushed with equal parts embarrassment and anger.  Her eyes flashed in ire.  “You want to learn how to be a spy?  This is lesson number one, Rogers.  Don’t trust anyone.”

He clenched his hands into fists.  “Even you?” he asked coolly.

She didn’t answer, staring furiously at him.  Then she turned on her heel and walked away from him.  _Again_.

_Damn it._

* * *

Later that night, they were doing recon on the warehouse.  Or, more accurately, _Natasha_ was doing recon on the warehouse.  Steve was hanging back, hidden behind some old dumpsters a couple hundred feet from the complex.  He was safe in the shadows, waiting and trying not to think too much.  About an hour ago, Agent Cox had dropped them at the extraction point some five miles north in another abandoned warehouse near the harbor in Lisbon before pulling back and flying the quinjet to a safe location.  With the fewest amount of words necessary to communicate her point, Natasha had decreed during their jog there that she was going to scope things out and return with a plan.  Steve wasn’t used to taking the backseat on anything, but considering how well this mission was going so far, he was going to do exactly what she’d told him to do.

Stay out of her way.

So that led to where he was now, crouching behind some truly foul smelling cover, keeping watch while Black Widow gathered her intel.  He had offered to help her.  She had ignored that, hadn’t even graced his suggestion of taking the south side of the warehouse and its adjacent buildings with a response.  Instead, she’d just gone, guns ready, darting like a shadow among shadows, and he was left to wait.  He didn’t like waiting.  Normally before a fight he was loose, his body ready and his mind battle-toned, calm and focused.  Right now, every muscle was tense and taut like a coiled spring, and he couldn’t keep still.  His shield felt heavy on his back.  His uniform was oddly uncomfortable, though this new stealth suit was the lightest and most breathable of any he’d had.  He didn’t like not being in control, not knowing what was going on, not being able to make the important decisions.  He didn’t want her to risk her life unnecessarily.  He didn’t know if he could trust her.

She’d told him not to without telling him anything at all.  That should have been a warning.  But it wasn’t because he _did_ trust her.  He couldn’t explain it.  Out of everyone on that strange team of heroes of which he’d inexplicably found himself a part, _she_ was the one he trusted.  Wanted to trust.

He was really starting to worry he was just thinking with his… well.  She was beautiful, and he, as Bucky would have put it, was a goddamned moron.

She dropped down from the crates behind him almost soundlessly.  He turned at the soft whoosh of air.  She was unhurt, walking with a sway of her hips and narrowed eyes.  She crouched beside him.  “Thirty,” she whispered.  “Most in the main warehouse.  Five north.  Five south.  Two walking perimeter.”

“Where’s the Eye?”

“Rego has it.  There’s an office on the second floor, northwest corner.  He’s in there.”

It was impressive that she’d gathered so much information in the fifteen minutes or so that she’d been away from him.  Still, Steve grimaced.  Getting to that office meant having to fight through the warehouse.  It was almost like she could read his mind.  “Lesson number two, Captain,” she murmured, glancing around the dumpster toward their target.  “Don’t fight if you don’t have to.  Full frontal assault probably worked great during the war.  Nowadays all it does is get you on the news.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest–”

“Sure, you weren’t.”  He stared at her, about ready to tell her off, but she was already going on.  “You sweep left.  I’ll go right.  Neutralize the hostiles.  Meet in the back.  I trust you can take a man down without the whole world hearing you do it.”  He gritted his teeth and nodded.  “Alright.  Silence on comms unless you’re bleeding to death.  You remember how to work them, don’t you.”  He was too angry to do anything other than curtly nod again.  “Go.”

He went.  So did she.  He swung wide to the left, sprinting through the night, leaping over ruts in the ground and rusted debris and garbage in the way.  The entire area was unkempt, abandoned and left to rot.  The warehouse grounds were overgrown with grass, weeds, and brush, and they were loaded with trash.  However, his enhanced vision carried him effortlessly through the mess, and a second later, he was approaching the left side of the area.  A fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the building.  Steve leapt smoothly over it and landed nearly silently on the other side.  He quickly took cover behind a rusted out truck.  Natasha was correct.  There were five guys standing guard on the south side of the building, spread along the exterior walls.  Some were sitting on the loading docks, smoking.  Others were pacing back and forth at their stations.  And two men were walking the perimeter, rifles across their chests.  Steve could hear them loudly and lewdly discussing some women they’d encountered earlier that day, at least he thought that was what they were saying.  He wasn’t as fluent in Portuguese as he was in other languages.  He waited until they were out of sight and earshot before attacking.

Contrary to what Romanoff thought, he did know a thing or two about stealth ops.  That hadn’t been the Howling Commandos’ usual _modus operandi_ , but there had been occasions where those tactics had come in handy.  So it wasn’t all that difficult to sneak up on the first pirate.  He was puffing away on a cigarette, staring into the starless, moonless night, completely oblivious as Steve darted through the shadows and approached from his left.  He snatched the guy around the neck, putting tremendous pressure on him until he lost consciousness.  Steve kicked his rifle and radio away.  Then he went on, sprinting along the side of the building until he reached the section where the loading docks were.  He leapt clear up the cement ramp, his fingers curling into the vest of the guy waiting there.  He threw him into the wall behind them with a bone-crushing crunch, following that with a mighty punch to the jaw that knocked him out.  Steve didn’t wait for the body to slump to the ground, running down the dock, streaking past the closed doors.  He smacked the next guy with an uppercut of his left arm, not even slowing down.  The man was flung head over heels over the railing.  There were two more ahead, and the thud of the last pirate’s body hitting the ground alerted them that he was coming.

They didn’t move fast enough to stop him, though.  His shield came off his back in a dim blur of muted color, flying through the air to hit the first man in the chest before ricocheting off the railing beside them to smack into the thighs of the second.  He pitched forward, falling hard into the concrete.  Steve caught his shield.  The other pirate was fumbling for his gun, but Steve was already on him.  A knee to the midriff cracked ribs and drove the air right out of him, and while he was gasping and gagging, Steve dropped him.  He kicked the man who was already prone, and he went still.  Five pirates in his way.  Five down.

He jumped down from the loading area and rounded the corner of the warehouse, pausing in the heavy shadows to check the rear of the building.  There was nothing but the harbor down a slight hill and more junk in the yard.  He moved, sliding through the darkness.  Ahead another man was smoking, standing in a circle of light from a lamp near the roof.  Steve ran toward him, tackling him and slamming his head into the ground.  The guy gave a muffled grunt of pain.  Steve rammed his fist into the man’s temple.

 _“Mãos ao alto!”_   Steve went still, feeling the rifle aimed at his back.  He exhaled slowly, straightening even more slowly, and turned his head.  _“Agora mesmo!  Levantem as mãos!”_   The man’s final word twisted in a cry of pain when a silenced gun went off.  The dead body collapsed into the dirt behind Steve.  Now he let out a sigh, turning and rising.

Natasha stood there, lowering her gun.  She met his gaze, her eyes dark.  He couldn’t tell if she was angry, amused, or simply disappointed.  “Thanks,” he said.  Not that he couldn’t have handled that himself, but it was nice that she’d had his back.  Literally.

“Watch your six,” she returned neutrally, effectively killing any appreciation he’d had.  “All down?”

“Down,” he affirmed with a nod.  “Now what?”

She holstered her gun on her thigh, her bright eyes devouring the darkened, forbidding warehouse behind them.  There was a lonely rear entrance, which couldn’t be opened from the outside (at least, not without breaking the door).  There were also a few grungy windows on the second floor close to where the office she’d mentioned before was.  Some of those were open.  A rusty, nasty looking pipe went up the corner of the building, probably a drain from the roof.  “You stay here,” she said after a moment.  “No matter what, hold this position.  I’m going to get the Eye.”

“What?”

“You have a listening problem?” she returned as she walked back toward the warehouse.  “Rego’s up there alone.  This is an in and out.  By the time they notice, we’ll be halfway back to the helicarrier.”

“How–”

“I’ll be coming out that window–”  She pointed to one of the open panes near the corner office.  “–and I better not come out into reinforcements.  Comms on.”

“Romanoff–”  She was already gone, jumping up the pole, finding handholds and secure places for her feet.  She climbed lithely and jumped just as gracefully, flipping to the left to grab the ledge of a closed window.  She shimmied and swung herself to the next narrow ledge where the window was open and slithered herself up inside.  Steve watched, shocked into something of a dumb stupor.  It was dark inside whatever room she’d entered, but he could see enough, probably more than she realized.  And he could have sworn she unzipped the front of her uniform lower before she silently slipped deeper into the warehouse.

 _Great_.  Relegated to waiting again.  He slid his shield onto his back, squinting as he peered into the shadows around him.  The inky surface of the harbor was calm, wrinkled under the lights of Lisbon further away, but other than the distant sounds of the city and a few ships, it was eerily quiet.  He was completely alone.  He didn’t have a good vantage of the warehouse as close as he was, so he ran a short distance out into the yard.  There was an old pile of crates out there, mostly rotted and reeking of an awful combination of garbage and mildew.  He stepped behind them.  At least from here he could see the back of the warehouse in its entirety and a bit down either side.  The light was on in the office Natasha had mentioned, but the windows were shut and so filthy he couldn’t see inside.

The silence persisted for quite a few minutes.  He started to get worried.  There was no sign of any sort of altercation going on inside.  It was achingly, disturbingly still.  Then he realized he had to turn his comm on.  “Lord Almighty,” he whispered at his own stupidity.  This was hard enough without having to fumble through all of the “wonders” of modern technology.  He reached up to his right ear to the tiny bud there and flipped the even tinier switch to activate the system.

“–but something tells me you’re not here to show me a good time,” came a rough, heavily accented male voice.  Steve could practically hear a smirk in the man’s tone.  “Black Widow.”

There was a shifting of some cloth.  He narrowed his eyes and caught a glimpse of what he thought was a body through the window.  Then he realized it _was_ a body, all feminine curves and lines.  Natasha’s body.  In the lap of someone else who was sitting in a chair.  That had to be Rego.  _What the hell…_

“So you do know me,” Natasha said lowly.  There was something in her voice he’d never heard before.  Something low and powerful.  Sultry.  Dangerous.

Rego chuckled.  “Who wouldn’t know you,” he growled.  Steve winced, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.  _This_ was her plan?  What the hell was she doing?  “SHIELD’s most powerful weapon.  The world’s best spy.”  There was a wet-sounding something, a slide of skin on skin.  Steve realized they were kissing, and that knot of unease in his belly wound tighter.  “I must be big game now if they’re sending you after me.  I don’t know if this is an honor or a mistake.”

Natasha’s voice was a seductive murmur.  “You want to find out?”

“I could kill you.”

She laughed, a purr of a thing in her throat.  “You could try.  But I’d rather–”  A kiss.  “–have some fun–”  Another kiss.  “–instead of leaping right into–”  More kisses, each sounding deeper.  “–business, wouldn’t you?”

“And what business is that?”  Rego’s voice had a warning to it.  Steve watched the two of them making out for all intents and purposes, not sure if he should be disgusted, worried, or horrified.  He was a bit of all three.  “Last I checked, piracy isn’t usually enough to get your boss pissing his panties and sending someone like you after me.”

“It’s not,” she replied.  Then she gave a little gasp.  Steve couldn’t tell if it was from pain or pleasure.  He hoped neither.

“Then why are you here?” came a playful hiss.

“To negotiate.  You have something I want, something you stole from a transport vessel out of Cairo three days ago.”

“You need to be more specific, _gatinha_.  I steal a lot of things.”

It was silent a moment.  “I know you know what I’m talking about.”

Obviously Rego decided to play along.  “Oh, _that_ ship.  Killed everyone aboard.  Sunk it.”  Anger coursed over Steve at the poor, innocent people who were dead.  How many more had this bastard murdered while plundering and destroying and enjoying every minute of it?  “Sold that loot.  There’s nothing left for you to take from me.  But believe me.”  His voice dropped to a husky groan.  “I’d love to give you what I still got.”

“I think you’re lying to me,” she murmured.  “I think you have it here, right on you.  And I think I can take it from you.”

“Search me then,” he replied.  Steve groaned under his breath in irritation.  “See if you can find it.”

There was more rustling.  Steve didn’t want to know what they were doing.  The only thing more prominent in his heart than disgust was anger that she’d left him like this, to _listen_ in as she…  _God._   If this was what it meant to be a SHIELD agent, he was pretty sure he was going quit before he even got started.  He was about ready to switch his comm back off for a bit (to hell with protocol) or at least tune out when Natasha let out a whine that was very obviously _not_ borne from ecstasy.  “You think you’re so smart, little girl?  You think you can play me, huh?”

“Where is it?”

Something crashed and rattled.  Steve’s pulse quickened, and he stared intently into the window.  He couldn’t see her.  He couldn’t see anything.  He shifted, trying to find a view that wasn’t blocked by the gunk all over the glass.  There wasn’t one.  “You made a mistake coming here, _gatinha_.  A bad one.  Little spider wandering too far from her own web.”  Natasha cried out again, desperate and terrified.  More rattling.  Steve’s gut clenched in terror.  “Tell you what, Black Widow.  You wish to negotiate?  How about this.  We take what we want from you, _all_ of us, and then we send you crying home to your boss.”  There was more struggling.  Him laughing.  “You know what I do with little spiders who bother me?  I squish them under my boot.”

That was it.  Steve was running and running fast.  He rammed the door with his shoulder, and that tore it right off its hinges.  He was inside the old, musty warehouse then, and the pirates sure as hell noticed that right away.  They all jerked to attention, abandoning work and card games and drinking.  Rifles were immediately turned toward him.  Steve gritted his teeth, panic and worry taut in his belly, and moved.  Gunshots missed him entirely, peppering the cement floor and the old, moldy sheetrock of the walls.  He charged deeper inside, grabbing the first goon and throwing him unceremoniously the sizeable length of the cluttered warehouse.  His gun was still firing as he flew, dotting the ceiling with bullets and shooting out a few of the lights.  In the now larger and deeper shadows, Steve was a force, thundering through the room toward the steps on the other side, bringing the pirates down left and right.  They outnumbered him more than a dozen to one, but they were sloppy and ineffective.  He landed a mighty roundhouse kick into the one advancing on him next, ducking afterward to avoid a spray of return fire, and drew his shield to block the rest of the barrage effortlessly.  When the thugs paused to reload, he mercilessly advanced, disarming and disabling and dropping them, one after another.  A few seconds later, they were all down, moaning and groaning, and Steve stood alone.

There was a high-pitched shriek.  _Natasha._   Grasping the straps of his shield tighter, he jumped onto one crate and propelled himself straight onto the walkway of the second floor that ran the interior of the building.  His heart was thundering, fear and desperation driving him faster and faster.  Ahead he saw the old, ugly door to the office on the northwest corner.  He could hardly breathe as he charged it, bursting through with a spray of cracked wood, _dreading_ what he would find.

It wasn’t at all what he expected.

Natasha was positively glaring at him.  “What the hell are you doing?”

Steve panted, though not from exertion.  From sheer shock and mounting embarrassment.  Rego was out cold, limp in a chair behind an old, warped desk, his scarred face lax and his lips parted.  There was a significant bruise blossoming on his jaw and temple.  The scream had probably come from him.  And Natasha was _fine_.  Intact.  Dressed.  Powerful.  _Beautiful._   “Uh…  I, uh…  It sounded like…”

She looked caught between wanting to laugh at him and kill him.  He was afraid the latter inclination was winning out when her eye _twitched._   “You really thought he was going to have his way with me?” she questioned lowly.  Steve swallowed through a dry throat.  “And you were coming to save me.  Noble, Rogers.  But if you want to play hero, stay in the goddamn army.”  She went back to fishing through Rego’s clothes, her slender hands digging in his coat, vest, and pants pockets.  Nothing.  “Make yourself useful.  Find something to tie him up with.”

Flustered, Steve stood a moment more before heading off to the side.  There wasn’t much.  Grabbing another chair, he lifted it and broke the metal leg right off the bottom.  Crouching behind Rego, he bent the bar around the chair and then around his wrists.  That would hold him for a while.  “Got it,” Natasha said with a quirk of a self-satisfied smile.  She’d pulled off the pirate’s boot, and a little, brown, leather pouch fell to the floor.  She pulled open the drawstrings and dumped its contents onto her palm.  Sure enough, the Eye of Ra (or whatever it was) tumbled into her hand, glowing brightly orange in the dim light.  It was stunningly crystalline, a gem that seemed too perfectly cut to be natural.  Natasha stared at it a moment, examining it with narrowed eyes, before returning it to the pouch.

A radio cracked.  It was coming from Rego’s belt.  A man was shouting in sloppy English.  “Rego, SHIELD is here.  Rego!  Alverez is inbound.  Do you copy?  Rego!”

That didn’t sound good.  Natasha turned to him.  “Let’s go.  Now.”

They left the office, turning sharply back down the walkway toward an adjacent room.  Steve realized this was the room into which she’d climbed before.  Below there was the sound of men coming, gruff shouting and boots pounding onto the grass.  Distantly the rotors of a helicopter got louder as it got closer.  Natasha didn’t wait for him, sliding out the open window before jumping the large distance to the ground.  She landed and rolled into the shadows.  Steve followed.  Silently they picked their way through the grass and garbage.  Behind them the shouting became louder, more focused, and the pirates left alive (which was most of them; Steve had pulled his punches) recovered enough to realize what had happened.  Steve didn’t need to understand Portuguese that well to tell that they were furious and coming after them.  He followed Romanoff, staying low, actually struggling to keep up because she was so fleet and agile and he was distracted by the ruckus behind them.  The helicopter arrived, swinging low and bathing the yard with its searchlight.  They were already far enough away that the wildly shifting beam didn’t come close to finding them.  Still, they kept going, sprinting down to the waterline before swinging around in a wide arc to head back north.  The pirates were getting loudly frustrated in their fruitless search, but their shouts and curses were less and less threatening the further away Steve and Natasha got until the beating of the helicopter rotors was a muffled thudding that faded into the quiet of the night.

They ran silently for a bit longer after that, darting through the reeds and dunes and boggy areas closer to the water.  Steve kept an eye behind them to make sure they weren’t being followed.  For the moment, they were safe, but surely the pirates would realize their quarry had fled and would expand their search.  Natasha seemed completely calm (well, unworried about pursuit; she’d had nothing but a scowl on her face since he’d barged into the office).  A few minutes later their meandering path turned back toward the road that led between the sparsely situated warehouses, and they picked up the pace.  Another moment after that they reached the extraction point.

This warehouse was in significantly worse shape than Rego’s, dilapidated with all of the windows smashed and its walls rotting.  Unbothered, Natasha led them inside and took cover behind one of the mostly intact sides.  It was deeply dark, almost black, but Steve could see her raise wrist to her mouth.  “Cox, this is Romanoff.  The 084 is secure.  Request extraction, over.”

Cox’s voice came back right away.  “Be there in two minutes.  Seems like you two stirred the hornet’s nest, so I’m coming in quiet.”

“Roger,” Natasha responded.  She dropped her wrist, sighed slowly, and folded her arms across her chest.

The silence was downright deafening.  Steve realized he was watching her more than he was keeping an eye on their surroundings.  And she would notice, of course.  Nothing he said or did seemed to be beyond her notice.  He made a pointed effort to turn away and stare south, bristling with a storm of emotions.  Anger, resentment, and shame…  _Wanting to make this right._   What the hell had he done wrong, though?  He stood stiffly, waiting and trying his hardest not to fidget under the weight of her gaze.  Maybe he should apologize.  _Why the hell should I apologize?_   And maybe she would just let it go.

She didn’t.  “Don’t ever do that again.”

After almost a day of her cold shoulders and harsh judgments and demeaning attitudes, he’d about had it.  “Don’t ever do what again?  Help you?”

“I didn’t need help.  I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Listen, Natasha–”  She glowered at him, like by calling her by her first name he was breaking some sort of unspoken rule.  He sighed haplessly.  “You sounded like you were in trouble.”

“I wasn’t.  At _no point_ was I in trouble.  _I_ was the one in control, Rogers.  I know what I’m doing.  I do this better than anyone.  I’m not some damsel in distress that you need to rescue.”  That cut deeply, both that she thought he was that much of a simpleton and that she was using the fact that he cared about her against him.  “You almost blew the entire op.”

He couldn’t believe that, but he still flushed with shame.  “That’s an exaggeration–”

“ _Avoid_ the fight,” Natasha returned tightly.  “And stay where you were.  Those were your directives.  At least you could have actually killed some of the pirates!”

He clenched his hands into fists again at that.  “Last I heard, partnerships are about give and take,” he said.  “If you’d bothered to tell me what you were planning, maybe I wouldn’t have thought you needed my help!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snapped, her eyes flashing.  “I’m used to working with someone who actually _knows_ what we do.  What _I_ do.”

“Give me a chance to learn.”

“Why?  So you can make me see the error of my ways?”

His brow furrowed in confusion.  “What?”

She was relentless, and he didn’t know what she was talking about.  “You want to reform me?  Mold me to your 1940s greatest-generation sensibilities?”

“What are you talking about?  I’m not going to…”  He didn’t understand her.  At all.  “What happened here?  We were fine when we worked together before.  I actually thought we got on pretty well back in New York, and now all of the sudden you act like you can’t stand the sight of me.  I’m sorry if you don’t think this is ideal, but it’s the hand you’ve been dealt, and I don’t appreciate being treated like this.”  She had the decency to hotly avert her gaze.  It was the most emotion he’d seen from her, the first genuine brush of shame.  He sighed sharply, holding onto his temper.  “And I shouldn’t have to prove to you that I have what it takes.”

The shame didn’t last.  “You sound like a recruitment poster or something.  Give it your best.  The all-American way.”  She muttered something in Russian that sounded an awful lot like a curse.  “You and me…  This is _never_ going to work.”

 _Enough._ “What is the matter with you?  Whatever’s got you so riled, don’t take it out on me.  It’s not like _this_ is what I want!”  His shout was louder and rougher than he intended, so taut with pain that it practically burst out of his chest.  She actually looked surprised.  Honestly, he was, too.  He always tried so hard to keep his problems to himself, to bear his own burdens silently in an effort not to drag anyone down with him.  Now…  He breathed deeply as the heat of the argument died.  The quiet was laden with tension, thick and tight.  “I’m sorry.  Really, I…  I didn’t mean to yell at you.”  He shook his head, trying to find a way to smooth over the rough edges.  There were so many of them.  “I know it doesn’t seem like we’re a good fit, but I think we can be.  I want to give this a try.”  _I need to give this a try._

“Inbound thirty seconds,” Cox announced.  “Stand by.”

She stared at him, stared hard, and he couldn’t decipher the look in her eyes.  “You want to know what I want, Captain?” she finally asked.  He wasn’t sure that he did (and he was pretty sure he did already), but she told him anyway.  “I want to get this mission over with and get my partner back.”

The quiet hum of the quinjet’s thrusters rattled the warehouse.  Cox was hovering on the north side, lowering the rear ramp.  The aircraft was dark, running nearly silently and invisibly.  Steve gritted his teeth.  Damn, this hurt.  He wasn’t even sure why, but it hurt something fierce.  Fiercely disappointing.  It wasn’t like he knew her that well.  She was right; he wasn’t her friend, hardly her peer, barely even her teammate.  And they were in all likelihood (and if today’s mission had been any indication) complete opposites.  But this felt like failure, like his chance at having _something_ in this time and place being good and grounding was all but vanishing into thin air.  “If that’s what you want,” he said, keeping his voice level and empty, “then I won’t stand in your way.”  She watched him.  He couldn’t figure out what she was thinking, what she was feeling.  If she was feeling anything at all.  He knew it wasn’t like him to quit, but somehow this, on top of everything else, was too much.  _Let it go._ “After you, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha held his gaze a moment more before turning, her boots crunching dirt and debris beneath them.  She walked toward the jet, a sleek shadow in the night.  Steve closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration before resignedly following her again.  So much for being Black Widow’s new partner.  It was over before it had even begun.  He’d never had a chance, and he’d just refused to let himself see it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mãos ao alto!_ – Hands up!  
>  _Agora mesmo! Levantem as mãos!_ – Right now! Get your hands up!  
>  _gatinha_ – kitten (slang for sexy woman)


	3. Chapter 3

Shame wasn’t an emotion with which Natasha was terribly familiar.  She’d felt it before, of course, but it was a rare thing.  Shame required the presence of a conscience, of knowing one had fundamentally done something wrong, something to hurt someone else.  Shame was akin to embarrassment, to guilt, and Natasha had been trained to not suffer either.  She didn’t acknowledge it, never let it pierce her resolve or compromise her objectives.  The Red Room had trained her to be the perfect assassin, the perfect spy, the perfect murderer, and her time in SHIELD had tempered some of that conditioning with compassion, but not much.  Guilt was weakness.  Shame was weakness.  Feeling anything other than cold determination was weakness.  Even when the prickling discomfort of it struck her in the past, she’d simply ignored it.

This, however, she couldn’t just ignore, no matter how much she wanted to.

Steve Rogers wore his heart on his sleeve.  She’d noticed that the minute she’d met him.  That should have put her at ease; people who were so open and easily interpreted were even easier to manipulate.  But it hadn’t made her comfortable then, and it didn’t now.  In fact, it was much the opposite; _something_ about him made her feel… off-balanced.  Disarmed, in a way.  And she’d have to be blind to not see how she’d hurt him that night.  Maybe he thought he was doing an adequate job at hiding it, sitting stiffly as he was on the other side of the quinjet like he was trying to put as much distance between them as possible for her benefit.  Maybe he thought he was keeping it contained.  But he wasn’t.  He’d taken off his helmet, revealing mussed blond hair that he didn’t bother to smooth back into place, and his shield was braced between his knees.  His head was tipped back slightly, braced into the cargo netting behind the bench, and his eyes were empty and distant, a million miles away.  He wasn’t frowning, not entirely, but everything about his posture screamed defeat.  That more than anything told her that he was being entirely truthful (of course he was) about how much he wanted this to work.  Logically it wasn’t just about her.  The echo of his shout before, about how this wasn’t what he wanted either…  It was sticking with her.  She got the impression that he was the sort who didn’t like to burden other people with his problems.  He had to be, to get back up and rejoin the world as quickly as he was after all he’d lost.  She couldn’t fathom what that must have been like, waking up here and now with everyone he knew old and or dead.  Being thrust into a world he didn’t recognize.  Just thinking about it made that twinge of shame that much sharper.

Fury had told her to help him learn, to get him back on his feet and integrated with society.  And all she’d done so far was shove him away.  It was petty and childish.  Really.  She should have been better than this.  This arrangement wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t right of her to take it out on him.  What had happened to Clint wasn’t _his fault_.  She was letting her insecurities dictate her actions.  And she shouldn’t been projecting her own frustrations and anger over Clint’s situation.  And her own guilt.  This shame she’d felt right away, and it was hard to ignore, like a thorn in her foot or a splinter in her palm.  She was leaving Clint behind, against her will and under orders maybe, but she was doing it all the same.  What had happened to him was terrible, and she was walking away, leaving him to wade through the aftermath of being brainwashed alone.  She was moving on _without him._   It was wrong.

None of that wasn’t Rogers’ fault.  She knew that.  But admitting it to herself and admitting it to him were two entirely different things.  She watched him as the quinjet shuddered through some turbulence.  They were flying south along the Atlantic coast of Africa, heading to rendezvous with the helicarrier where it was aloft over the Indian Ocean.  The night was thick and dark, heavy with clouds.  In a matter of another hour they’d be landing.  She’d deliver the 084 to Fury and put in her request to transfer.  She’d run solo for a while, at least until Clint was reinstated.  She’d go to bat for him, just as he had for her.  Talk to whoever she needed to.  Go in front of the damn Council herself if necessary.  She wasn’t going to let them sideline him like this.  And Rogers would be fine.  Fury could find him someone else, a partner more suited.  _Harsh._   She tried to ignore the whisper in the back of her mind.  She took in anew the slump of his shoulders, the way his eyes were looking everywhere _but_ her.  _You didn’t even give him a chance._

She made herself remember how angry she’d been when he’d busted into that office like God’s patriotic gift to women in distress everywhere.  Like she’d ever been in danger, ever not been entirely in control of the situation.  Rego touched and kissed exactly what she had let him.  Clint would have _never_ done that, never come swooping in to save her.  The countless operations they’d run together, mission after mission after mission, and he’d never once doubted her ability to extract what needed extracting or kill what needed killing.  He’d never interfered.  Any other SHIELD agent would have done the same as well.  Not Rogers, though.  She had a feeling that no matter how hard she tried to teach him, he’d never learn to stifle his disgustingly persistent need to _do the right thing_.  _That’s why this isn’t going to work._   Maybe Rogers had skills that SHIELD could use, but those skills weren’t complementary to her own.  He was never going to be comfortable with what she did, so she was really doing him a favor by ending this now.  _Keep telling yourself that._

Tense silences didn’t usually bother her, but this one was.  She wanted to say something to him, but she didn’t know what.  A vague feeling that she should apologize flitted across her thoughts, but it wasn’t potent enough to make her actually want to do it.  And why should she apologize, at any rate?  She hadn’t been the one to nearly blow the op.  _He didn’t blow the op.  And if you’d given him a heads up, he wouldn’t have done what he did._   She didn’t want to think about that, why she’d gone in there without letting him know what she’d been planning.  Part of it was certainly grounded in anger; she’d never needed to do that with Clint, and it had been part of an effort to prove that Clint was better equipped to be her partner.  Prove it to him and to herself, as if there could be any doubt.  But part of it…  It was wrong on so many levels, but she’d wanted to toy with him.  She’d wanted to scare him away.  It was mean and a tad cruel and even somewhat evil.  Hence how hard it was to keep looking at him like this, seeing how dejected he was.  Like she’d pulled the rug out from under him.  Like she was leaving him with nothing.  How much hope had he put into making this work?  That awful, aching feeling in the pit of her stomach – _the shame_ – twisted until she could hardly stand it.

_Say something to him._

She never got a chance.

An alarm wailed, breaking the endless silence.  Natasha immediately looked to the cockpit where Cox was flipping switches and frantically grabbing the flight stick.  “Hang on!” he cried.  The quinjet dove suddenly, so unexpectedly and harshly that Rogers was scrambling to get a grip on something to steady himself.  Natasha flailed, grabbing the netting behind her.  She knew that blaring warning, knew what it meant.  _Someone was shooting at them._

“SHIELD Alpha-one, this is SHIELD three-eight-five.  We’re under enemy fire!”  The jet banked wildly to the left and then the right, continuing in its rapid descent.  “SHIELD Alpha-one, come in!”  Cox was trying to out-maneuver the missiles pursuing them, launching chaff to disrupt their guidance systems, but it was too late.  The shrill scream of the instruments was the only warning they had before the missile made its mark.

The entire front of the jet exploded.

The air was sucked right out of Natasha’s lungs.  She had no time to think, to breathe, to move or brace herself.  Heat and pain blasted over her, driving her back into the fuselage.  She smacked into the rear of the jet, her head banging into something as she fell.  Ugly pain jolted over her skull like lightning.  Everything spun and tipped wildly.  She blinked, struggling to gather her senses, and looked up to see the sky above and fire raining down.  Wind was rushing inside.  The cockpit was _gone_.  Clouds and flames.  They were falling.  _Falling._

She blacked out.

She came to.

Something dark and warm hit the back of the jet beside her.  Black, like a weighty shadow.  Not black.  Navy blue and silver and blond hair and deep blue eyes.  _Rogers._   “Romanoff!  _Romanoff!”_   Strong hands grabbed her arms, shaking her firmly.  She couldn’t answer.  She couldn’t focus, couldn’t see anything beyond the blur of hungry flames and those blue eyes.  The navy blue shadow was moving then, moving around her, struggling against unseen adversaries.  Gravity.  Inertia.  “Romanoff, can you hear me?  Damn it!”  He was flailing, fighting to do something.  The world lurched.  Fire blasted around them.  The roar was deafening.  She couldn’t make sense of it.  He had his hands around a red lever.  _The rear hatch.  Emergency exit._   He was yanking, scrambling to open it with the jet exploding and burning around them.  “Natasha!  Hang onto me!”

She couldn’t, so it was just as well that he was right in front of her again, wrapping her into his embrace and tugging her limp, useless body close.  There was a fast-paced pounding, a staccato pulse of something beneath her ear.  His heart.  And a shallow gust beating into her hair.  His breath.  He held her tight, pulling on the lever.  The rear of the jet opened, revealing a swirl of black.  She hardly had a moment to realize the sable abyss was actually an inky ocean and smoke before Rogers jumped, pulling her with him.

The wind cut and ripped tears from her eyes.  Her hair blew in front of her face as they tumbled.  The rush of air around them was louder than anything she’d ever heard, louder than the strangled race of her heart in her throat.  She felt weightless, spiraling down into nothingness, and for one horrific moment, she feared she would simply fall forever.  But she wouldn’t, because he had her.  A pair of strong arms encircled her, moved her so that she was braced against his chest with his back between them and the water careening toward him.  Vaguely she realized what he was doing – _protecting her_ – but that thought was dashed by the massive explosion above them.  The remains of the spiraling quinjet detonated with a massive boom, a ball of fire spreading through the sky and painting the clouds orange and yellow.  The shockwave pushed them down even harsher, violent and searing, and Natasha closed her eyes against the blinding light.  His heartbeat was gone, drowned in the thunder, but his breath was there, fast and panicked against her ear.  “Deep breath!”

The warning came too late.  They hit the water hard.  Even though Rogers took the brunt of it, the impact was still vicious, agonizing.  She went limp with it.  Never once did the arms around her slacken, though.  It felt like an eternity before she came back to herself enough to open her eyes.  It was a black and blurry world.  Nothing seemed right, sounded right.  Looked right.  There was a winking yellow light.  Faded and flickering, but getting stronger and stronger.  Brighter.

It was the jet.

It seemed to be falling slowly, but it wasn’t.  The debris slammed into the water, hitting with a tremendous splash, driving down right onto them.  She felt herself being yanked to the left, turned rapidly.  Rogers was swimming, dragging her down, putting himself between the debris careening into the ocean and her.  Natasha instinctively flailed, squirming as that awful shadow descended.  The flames winked out as they were enveloped by the water.  Chunks of the jet tore away, banging into them.  It was chaotic, a nightmare of water and metal and fire.  Something – a rotor blade – clipped the side of her head.  She barely felt the pain.  The impact pushed her down deeper, deeper into the water and deeper into unconsciousness, making her limbs more and more disjointed and disconnected from her brain.  Even as she sank, Rogers refused to let her go.  He was dragging her along with him as he struggled in the pitch.

It seemed to go on endlessly.  It was so dark, shadows upon shadows, and there was no way out.  Her lungs burned.  Her body ached.  She was fading.  She knew she couldn’t breathe, shouldn’t try, but she couldn’t remember why, so she did.  Water flooded her mouth.  Flooded her lungs.  His hold on her wrist, tight and strong as steel, was the only thing tethering her, the only thing guiding her.  _The only thing._

No, there was something else.

Soft lips.  Plush lips.

Someone kissing her rather insistently.

Arms around her again.

“Romanoff!  Breathe!”

Air being forced into her body.  Driven down into her lungs.  Again and again.

“Come on, Natasha!  Don’t do this!  Breathe!”

_Rogers._

More kissing.  He wasn’t very good at it.  She shouldn’t be down on him for that, though.  This was probably his first kiss since 1945.

_I could teach him a thing or two._

“Damn it!  _Come on!_ ”

Her eyes snapped open.  Water surged up her throat, hot and foul as acid.  Arms lifted her a little, as much as they could, turning her so that the liquid drained.  “Easy, easy,” cooed the voice.  “I got you.”  Consciousness came and went, rising and falling like her body was floating.  It was still so dark, but she vaguely realized she was seeing clouds.  They were on the surface of the ocean, buffeted, rocked by the waves.  He was against her, her limp form tucked to his chest.  He was firm and strong and keeping her out of the water as much as possible.  There was light, the light of his eyes.  “Easy.”

As much as she wanted to stay awake, knew she _needed_ to stay awake, she couldn’t.  The pain and shock grabbed at her and hauled her back down.  She knew she wasn’t going to sink.  He had her.  Her eyelids fluttered shut, and the light faded.  “I got you.  I got you…”

He had her.

* * *

He was hunting her.

As good as he was, though, she was better.  She caught sight of him blocks ago.  That wasn’t the first time.  Earlier that night, on the tail of the last missions she’d completed, she’d first seen him.  She’d been in the extravagant penthouse of a particularly tall skyscraper in Beijing, having extracted the codes she’d been sent to retrieve from the now dead Chinese business owner under her nearly naked form, and she’d looked up and out the huge windows and caught a glimpse of him.  He’d been across the way in another building, a shadow barely framed by the setting sun.  She’d gathered her dress, her heels, her data, and run.

Now she was weaving through the crowded streets, attempting not to appear like she was aware he was there.  He was.  Behind her and dressed in black.  Police?  Unlikely.  An amateur looking to prove himself or get lucky?  No amateur could make her as he had.  A rival assassin?  She didn’t think so.  An enemy like that wouldn’t have allowed himself to be detected, nor would he play this cat and mouse game.  This man, whoever he was, was watching her.  Learning about her.  If he’d been sent to kill her, he wouldn’t have wasted time (and opportunity) by doing that.  She picked her way through the evening bustle, cars clogging the metropolis’ streets.  The streets were alive with shouting, business people heading home from work, tourists and youths chatting loudly as if their conversations were the only ones that mattered.  The glow of neon was a power all its own, brighter than the sun.  She made of point of seeming aimless, wandering through a series of street merchants and gazing lazily at their wares when in truth every one of her keen, well-honed senses was parsing the information around her.  He was still there, back a bit and also making a show of being inconspicuous, and he seemed to be alone.  _Foolish_ , she thought.  Whoever was trying to shut her down had underestimated her.  She would make him pay for that mistake.

She led him on for a while.  True to form, he kept his distance but matched her, step for step and turn for turn.  It was well into a thick, steamy night by the time she grew tired of this charade.  Ahead was an area of Beijing that wasn’t so heavily populated and commonly frequented.  She went there, flirting with merchants and tourists along the way, playing the fun-loving traveler effortlessly.  He kept pace.  That more than anything made her lead him on.  This was bold, and the inclination to this guy (and whoever had sent him) a lesson for their impertinence, for thinking that she was some sort of trophy to be won.  Taking down Black Widow.  _Never._

Even wandering into the less savory neighborhood hadn’t dissuaded him.  She wasn’t given to acts of kindness or mercy but this dance through Beijing had afforded her hunter plenty of times to disengage and back off.  He hadn’t taken any of them.  She should have hunted _him_ , killed him and eliminated the threat, but she’d caught a scant look at his eyes once or twice, and there was something about them.  They were not entirely unlike the eyes of the people who lived in her world: dark and shadowy, filled with the promise of ruthless violence, emotionless, _precise_.  But there was something she hadn’t seen before in them, too, and because she’d never seen it, she couldn’t name it.  Couldn’t understand it.  It was something softer, something purer, something…  It intrigued her.

She’d find out who this man was, and then she’d kill him.

She led him deeper into the darkened alleys.  The crowds of respectable folk had long since fallen away.  The night shadows here were thick, made to hide unsavory and criminal acts.  He followed her unspoken invitation, meeting her every step, every turn.  Eventually she chose the place this fight would happen: a lonely, dark nook behind some sort of warehouse that had at one point belong to a rather large crime syndicate but fortunes rose and fell swiftly in the underworld so it was now abandoned and empty.  No one would find them here, interrupt them or bother them.  Once she was sure she was dutifully tracking her, she ran, finding a position within the old equipment and junk cluttering the alley from which she could attack.  She hid in the shadows, breathing slowly, eyes carefully scanning the area.  She waited.

He came.

This was the best look at him she’d gotten so far.  He wasn’t a very tall man, perhaps a tad taller than her, with spiky short brown hair and hazel eyes.  His face was comely, set into expression of calm concentration.  He’d followed her right into what was clearly a trap, and that meant he was confident he could beat her.  That made her angry, though not enough to be impulsive.  She stayed in the shadows, luring him deeper into her snare.  The other end of the alleyway was less cluttered and even more shadowy, the perfect environment for a melee.  Once he wandered this far, she’d ambush him.

His boots thudded quietly on the asphalt.  More cautiously.  She watched as he pressed through the junk.  His eyes were narrowed, searching.  He’d drawn his gun and held it in front of him, sweeping through the shadowy junk.  His footsteps turned silent.  No rushed breaths.  No rustle of cloth.  This man was more certainly a professional of some sort.  She observed him a moment more, curious.  She had her own gun drawn, lightly held in her hand with her finger poised on the trigger.  She could shoot him now, end this now before it even began.  The urge to do it was there, of course.  It always was.  But her interest was stronger.  She’d long discovered that one could learn a lot about another person from how that person fought.  Sloppy and brutish.  Precise and light.  Fast or slow, powerfully or weakly.  A dancer or a tank.

She wanted to know how he fought.

So she attacked.

She leapt from the shadows, kicking him back into the wall.  He hit the brick warehouse with a thud and a rush of air from his chest.  A quick jab knocked the handgun right from his fingers.  But he moved fast, recovering from her strike quicker than she anticipated, and returned with a strike of his own that drove her back across the alleyway.  She drew her gun again, but he was on her, snatching her wrist and slamming it into the adjacent building.  It took a few attempts to cause enough pain for her grip to slacken.  She wedged her knee between them, shoving him back.  He stumbled slightly, pivoted and kicking at her in a powerful arc.  She ducked, rolled, drew her knife from the sheath high on her thigh.  The blade glimmered weakly in the poor light as she expertly spun it.  He gave a little grunt, maybe of surprise, and cocked an eyebrow.

She charged at him, slashing toward his throat, but he sidestepped and avoided it.  His own knife was yanked from a sheath on his waist, and he retaliated, driving her back with a series of fast attacks.  They went on like this for quite some time, an elegant, silent dance of singing blades, pounding hearts, and light feet.  Whoever he was, he was formidable.  Well-trained.  Highly composed.  An expert combatant.  And he’d obviously been sent to kill her.  His advances were sharp, his strikes aimed to cause mortal injury.  She kept ahead of him, but only just.  It became obvious almost immediately that this was no ordinary thug, no simple henchman.  They were evenly matched.  He lunged and she countered.  She countered and he dodged.  Neither had an advantage.  Narrow misses.  Lightning-quick stabs and feints and kicks.  Lithe bodies twisting in the night.  A tank he was not.

She finally landed a slice across his chest, and he grunted in surprise and pain.  The corner of her lips curled in a smug smile, and she launched herself at him in the moment he spent reeling.  She cartwheeled, wrapping her thighs around his trunk to flip him head over heels.  He landed hard on his back, hard enough that she heard the air whoosh out of him.  She kicked his wrist viciously.  It cracked and he yelped, his knife skittering into the shadows.  She straddled him without pause, spinning her knife to bring the edge right up against his throat.  He caught her right hand with his left, preventing her from stabbing him, and pushed back.  His eyes were still so calm.  No fear.

“Not wise following a spider into her web,” she baited in a low tone.

He grunted like he was considering that.  “Probably not.”

That angered her.  She overcame him a second, gained ground, pressed the knife closer to his skin.  The blade nicked him enough to draw a faint red line under his jaw.  “Who are you?” she hissed, using her thighs to squeeze his torso and impede his breathing.  There was no fear in his gaze, but there was sweat on his hair line, and he was paling.  “Who sent you?”

He said nothing, gritting his teeth if the flexing of his jaw was any evidence, pushing back.  It became a contest of their strengths, and she _enjoyed_ it.  He was pinned beneath her, and though he was struggling, she had all the control.  And she wanted to know _who he was._   He’d made her in the middle of a mission.  No one had accomplished that in _years_.  Frustrated, she pushed down hard, gouging the vital muscles of his throat even more.  “Who are you?”

Her emotions got the better of her, blinding her so that she didn’t see him reaching into the shadows to their left.  He’d grabbed something, and he swung it up roughly to smack her across the head.  Agony burst over her skull.  She was knocked to the side, and he pushed her off of him before lithely springing back to his feet.  She retaliating brutally, swiping at him again with her weapon, unleashing a flurry of fast stabs and wicked blows.  She drove him back down the alley toward the old equipment, forcing their fight into narrower confines.  Being armed would prove a better advantage in tight quarters with less room to maneuver.  She cut him again across the thigh, and he staggered, but he snatched her by the hair as he did and threw her viciously into a dumpster.  She hit roughly, dazed for a moment, and he got an arm around her neck, choking her and pulling her back into him.  His other hand latched around her wrist, squeezing hard enough to grind her bones together.  He bent her arm, and suddenly the knife that had moments before been at his neck was at hers.

Again, there was a contest of strengths, hers pushing away and his driving inward.  The deadly tip of her own knife skirted down, just above low cut V of her dress.  It trembled from the opposing forces on it, dancing dangerously close to her sternum only to shiver away.  Natasha ground her teeth, digging the heels of her shoes into the street for traction, putting all of her strength into staying alive as he bore down onto her.  She finally sacrificed her grip on the arm strangling her to reinforce her fingers around the knife’s hilt.  That proved sufficient to get the knife far enough away from her body for her to shove back and then surge forward, dragging him with her.  Once more she was able to throw him, though her leverage wasn’t as good this time.  He tumbled half over her shoulder, half around her, the knife slicing her arm during the struggle.  He let her go, somersaulting as he landed.  He straightened quickly, pivoting to face her again.

They stared at each other.  The night was thick around them, but she could see him more clearly now.  The meager shine of perspiration had turned into a heavier layer, making his comely face glow.  He was older than her, perhaps ten years, but that had only served to harden him, temper him.  He was dangerous but not cruel.  That gave her pause.  She looked into those hazel eyes and saw… 

He charged.  The slew of attacks he launched at her were fast-paced and furious, expertly thrown and with a great deal of power behind them.  She blocked, dodged, her own frustration fueling her.  It was rare that that happened, that _anything_ breached the tight control she maintained over her emotions, but it seemed unstoppable.  Frustration and just a little fear.  It was rare she battled an opponent that was a challenge, even more so of late as old allies and enemies shifted and realigned.  But it was rarer still that she encountered anyone who could match her.  This was disturbing and _enraging_.

The fight resumed, more ruthless than before.  Faster.  Harsher.  Neither of them was playing now.  Neither was testing.  This was to the death, and they both knew it.  He had no weapon again her, but he was quick and powerful enough that she knew he didn’t need one to kill her.  He fought defensively, attacking only when he knew his blows would land and hurt.  It was wearing her down.  But it was wearing him, too.  The signs were subtle, but they were growing more numerous and noticeable.  His moves were sluggish, not quite as meticulous and precise, perhaps even retarded by pain.  She gritted her teeth, slashing him again across the small of his back when he was just a tad too slow escaping her attack.  He stumbled a little, skidding to his knees wearily, and she gave a small, satisfied grin.  _Not better than me._ It was time to end this.

Gripping the knife tighter, she sprung at him, aiming to bury her blade into his back, anticipating the satisfying rush of victory, of _finishing him_ , only he whirled at the absolute last second and punched her right across the face.  A vicious kick rammed into her midriff, driving her back, and when he spun and she landed on her side, he shoved a gun in her face.  Obviously he’d found it during the skirmish.  Bad luck.  _Sloppy._

It didn’t matter now.  She was on her knees, and he had it aimed at the center of her forehead.  She had lost, and this man, whoever he was, had her completely at his mercy.  And surely he had no mercy.

Yet, seconds dragged by, simultaneously stretched long by fear and anxiety and gone too fast with the realization that these could be her last.  She watched him, not looking away, barely blinking.  He watched her, doing the same.  The barrel of his gun was the only thing separating them.  Her heart was thundering, which she thought passing strange.  She’d been in situations like this before, situations she’d barely and inexplicably escaped, and she couldn’t recall ever feeling like this.  Terrified.  But for some reason _excited._   He didn’t pull the trigger, still catching his wind.  His finger was taut on it, but he didn’t.  And she didn’t understand.  He’d _won._   This was his mission.  “Finish it,” she hissed.  Sweat stung her eyes as she glared at him.  He said nothing, did nothing.  Anger, bitter and heated, sparked over her.  “What are you waiting for?  Finish it!”

Still nothing.  She couldn’t see what he was thinking or feeling.  Was he toying with her?  Drawing out her last moments like some sort of penance?  Giving her a chance to reflect on her life?  There’d be no remorse, no regret.  “Kill me now,” she warned, “because if you don’t, you’ll never get another chance.”

“Come with me.”

It was silent.  His voice had been low, the words even and firm but so quiet like they were meant for only her to hear.  She didn’t understand.  Go with him?  Perhaps he hadn’t been sent to kill her.  Maybe he was there to take her captive, to turn her, to…  “Come with me.  Leave and never look back.”

She still didn’t understand.  “Don’t toy with me.  You were sent to kill me.”

“I was sent to kill you,” he affirmed.  “And I should.  I know I should.”  His finger tensed on the trigger, and she exhaled slowly in preparation.  But he still didn’t shoot.  His form loosened slightly, just the tiniest bit, and the gun lowered a little.  He released a slow breath.  “But I don’t want to.”  He dropped his arm, the weapon with it.  He could still kill her before she could attack him.  They both knew it.  But it was a sign that he was serious.  This wasn’t a game or a ploy.  Whatever this was, it was real.  “I’m giving you one chance.  You can choose to walk away with me, right here, right now.  You choose that, and you’ll have a chance to do the right thing.  Wash the blood from your hands.  Fight for good.”  He stared at her, letting that sink in.  “Or you can choose to stay here, and we can finish this, right here and right now.  One of us dies.”

Now she understood, but she simply didn’t know what to think.  This was beyond the bounds of her training, far beyond them.  She had no capacity to make decisions like this.  No cause.  No _right_.  There was an instinctive tug inside her, like a tether leashing her to her objectives, and the impulse to strike at this man (her own death be damned) for even suggesting she break with her protocols and betray her handler and her cause was nearly unbearable.  _Black Widow does not think.  Black Widow does not feel.  Complete the mission.  Eliminate resistance._ But she didn’t follow those demand.  The novelty of this was overwhelming.  It didn’t process in her mind because of one unbelievable truth.

She’d never been _given_ a choice before.

He was watching her closely, waiting.  She couldn’t…  “Why?”

He hesitated.  It was the first time she saw emotion in his eyes.  “Because when I look at you, I see me,” he said after a quiet moment.  The hard lines of his body softened further.  “And I needed someone to give me that choice.”

And then she realized what it was she saw in those hazel eyes.  As he saw himself in her, she saw _herself_ in him.  Herself in ten years.  Herself, wizened and changed.  Softer.  _Compassionate._

_No one’s weapon._

“Come with me,” he said again.

_Free will._

He narrowed his eyes.  “Be an agent of SHIELD.”

She was on her feet before she thought to stand.  She was stepping toward him before she thought to walk.  She was answering before she thought to _stop._   “Yes.”

If he was surprised, it wasn’t obvious.  His expression loosened even more, though, and he tentatively put his gun into his holster.  They stared at one another a moment more, gauging each other, finding their way through this tentative moment.  “There’s no going back,” he warned.  “Walk away with me, and you can never go back.”  There was a warning in that, both about the enormity of this offer and about what would happen to her should she betray him.  “Do you understand?”

 _Walk away._   _Never go back._   “I understand.”

He nodded.  Then he held out his right hand.  It was bloody and grimy.  “I’m Clint Barton.”  She knew him now.  _Hawkeye._   World-renowned marksman.  Once he’d been a killer for hire, but he’d gone straight years ago.  Gone straight and worked for SHIELD.  Though that was a mark for ridicule in their dark world, a sign of weakness and cowardice, it did little to diminish his reputation as one of the world’s best assassins.  Tentatively she shook his hand.  “Nice to meet you, Black Widow.”

She broke the chains.  She wasn’t just Black Widow.

She had a name.  “Natalia Romanova.”

Two weeks later, she had another name.  Natasha Romanoff.

And six months after that, Clint was calling her “Nat”.

* * *

Natasha heard the soft sounds of waves swishing against a shore.  It was gentle, lulling.  Soothing.  So much so, in fact, that she nearly ignored the nagging whispers coalescing in the back of her head that she should wake up.  But she didn’t – couldn’t – stay asleep, despite the pain wracking her skull and the horrible taste in her mouth and the achiness that weighed her limbs down.  There shouldn’t be waves.  There shouldn’t be…

Where the hell was she?

She groaned, squeezing shut her eyes again because the vertigo was too awful.  After riding out the swell of nausea, she tried to look again, better prepared to contend with the spinning sight.  The sky was bright blue, filled with idyllic white clouds.  A hot wind tickled over her, brushing across exposed skin and tangled hair.  It smelled of the ocean, a sweet tang mixed with the not quite pleasant scent of organic material baking and rotting.  Her fingers curled into something grainy and dry – _sand_ – and she groaned hoarsely.  Lifting her head seemed like a monumentally impossible task, but she did, panting through the discomfort.  Sure enough, the wide expanse of the deep, blue ocean stretched endlessly before her.  This was a beach, white sand and rocks running up and down for miles.  She was fairly far from where the gentle waves were rhythmically lapping against the ground, up a gentle incline and nestled behind some long grasses and protected beneath the thick canopies of some shorter, flowering trees.

The effort proved too much, and she closed her eyes again and let her head sink back down into a surprising soft pillow of sand and grass.  How the hell had she gotten here?  Her memories were slow to form any sort of meaningful picture.  She’d been dreaming about when Clint had brought her into SHIELD.  It wasn’t something she thought about often.  She rarely chose to look back on most of her life before that fateful night in Beijing five years ago.  It was too dark, too unclear.  Too unpleasant.  So why…

_Mission.  Pirates.  084.  Quinjet went down.  Ocean.  Drowning._

She groaned at the memories.  Well, she hadn’t drowned.  Clint must have saved her.  But where was he?

_Not Clint._

Right.  She had a new partner.  Natasha opened her eyes again when that particular thought stampeded through the haze in her head.  She gathered her senses a little more proficiently and realized someone was lying next to her, not touching her exactly, but she could feel heat (a lot of heat) and the movement of deep breathing.  Grimacing, she managed to turn on her side and was more than a little surprised to see a flawless expanse of pale skin and muscles.  She blinked blearily.  The top of a navy blue combat suit was gathered around a narrow waist, belt gone.  _What the hell…_ “Rogers,” she croaked.  God, she sounded like she’d swallowed gravel.  He didn’t move, breathing slowly and evenly.  Licking her cracked lips and trying to gather some moisture into her mouth, she tried again.  “Rogers!”  This time she shoved him a little.

He came awake with a gasp and a jerk, turning over to regard her with a bruised face half coated in sand.  He had his shield on his arm, and he almost hit her with it as he whipped around.  “What?  What?”  He focused on her and then sagged down onto his elbows in exhaustion.  “Lord,” he groaned.  His voice sounded only moderately better than hers.

She watched him rub his forehead for a moment.  Then she tried to sit up herself and was rewarded with a fiery pain up and down her left side.  “Easy,” he warned.  “I wrapped your ribs up as best I could, but they’re probably gonna be sore.”  She noticed them that her cat suit was unzipped down to her navel, and her chest was indeed braced in strips of white.  His undershirt, probably.  A few other cuts and abrasions on her arms were dressed as well where her uniform had been ripped open.  She felt oddly exposed at that, almost embarrassed, which was absolutely ridiculous.  She grabbed the zipper of her uniform and pulled it up over her bra again.  “You took a pretty bad knock to the head, too.  Might have a concussion.”

She’d had enough of those in the past to know that she did.  Tenderly her fingers probed the side of her head, where her skull was particularly throbbing.  There was a sizeable sore area, but the bone was intact.  She could still function.  She released a slow breath, watching as he climbed gingerly to his feet.  For some reason (the same dumb reason she’d actually been concerned with her _modesty_ of all things), she looked away to give him a chance to collect himself.  Instead, she took better stock of their surroundings.  The shoreline was flat and continued as far as she could see, curling in and out of the ocean.  Palms trees and tropical plants were lush and verdant, lining white sand and rock.  Behind them, it was forest, thick and almost forbidding.  It might have been paradise, only she had the sinking suspicion nothing about this was as beautiful as it seemed.  “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.  He had his arms back in his uniform and was zipping it up.  “Somewhere off the coast of Africa?  I had to swim pretty far to get here.”

“How far?”

He squinted, looking out over the ocean.  The hot wind brushed through his mussed blond hair, and in the bright sun, his eyes were bluer than the sea and sky combined.  “Maybe a hundred miles?”

She supposed she should have been amazed at that, that he had swum through the night _with her as dead weight_ a hundred miles to get them here.  But mostly she was just furious.  “A _hundred_ miles?  You took us a hundred miles from the crash site?”

He glared at her.  “Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” he sneered sarcastically.  She hadn’t thought he was capable of sarcasm.  “Next time I’ll leave us out in the middle of the shark-infested ocean so the pirates can find us.  Because they’re out there, looking for us.”

That wasn’t good and frankly too much to deal with right then.  Hotly she averted her eyes.  “Yeah, well, this is going to make it harder for SHIELD to find us.”

She heard his hands slap his thighs in exasperation.  “What did you want me to do?  It’s not like I could look around for the closest island.  We’re lucky I found what I did.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.  Honestly, she knew it wasn’t right of her to be irritated at him.  He’d saved her life.  _He saved my life._   And what he’d done had been incredible, to say the least.  If she’d been with anyone else, even Clint…  They probably would have drowned.

He sighed, quickly looking around.  “Will SHIELD send out a rescue party?”

That was enough to snap her from her malaise.  She grunted, pushing herself up.  The world spun for an awful second, and her legs turned rubbery and infirm and she nearly went back down.  Rogers immediately reached a hand out to help her, but she scowled at him and he backed off.  That guilt came back, and that only sent her mood spiraling further into complete orneriness.  Head injuries always made her cranky.  That, and being goddamn _stranded._   “Maybe.  The quinjet probably got its location off before it went down.  But…”  She smiled witheringly at him.  “We’re not at that location.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.  “Well, we can’t stay here.  They’re going to figure out where we are.”

“What do we have for supplies?”

He didn’t look pleased.  “Not much.  I couldn’t salvage anything from the jet.”  That meant her guns (which were probably water-logged), her combat knife, his shield, and…  He reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out the small leather pouch.  He shook his head.  “Whatever this thing is, Rego obviously wants it back bad.”  He gave it back to her.

The shape and weight of the Eye of Ra was comforting somehow as she clasped the pouch in her palm.  At least it wasn’t at the bottom of the ocean.  They could still salvage the op.  They still had the 084.  A few irate thoughts raced through her head, things like _this wouldn’t have happened if the mission had gone more smoothly_ , or _if we’d slipped in and out like I planned, we would’ve reached the helicarrier long before they’d tracked us_ , but she didn’t say them.  What was done was done.  She handed the 084 back to him.  His suit was bulkier, with deeper pockets.  “Don’t lose it,” she reminded.

He seemed a tad surprised, but he took the item back and slid it back into his pocket.  Of course, what he hadn’t said was obvious.  They had hardly any weapons.  No food.  No water.  No medical supplies.  And no way to call for help.

The situation was serious.  Not the worst in which she’d ever been, but a bad one to be certain.  And if he was right…  “How do you know Rego’s following us?”

He sighed again, looking back out over the ocean.  “The _Black Hand_ was there _._   Not sure if that was what shot us down, but it came to search through the wreckage.  I don’t think they saw me, but I don’t know.  Good thing it was so dark last night.”  He shrugged a little.  “Got us here.  Took care of your… um…”  He blushed.  It was a good look on him, the rosy flush high on his cheeks and descending his neck.  His uniform collar was loose enough now that she could see it did go down his chest a bit.  “I was going to keep watch, but I guess I was more tired than I thought.”  He didn’t look pleased, though whether it was with himself or their situation, she couldn’t be certain.  “Something tells me they’re gonna do their due diligence and at least check out anything within swimming distance.”

“The swimming distance of Captain America?”  A hundred mile radius was a pretty damn big spot to search.  She supposed that was both good and bad.  If Rego was looking for them, it might take him time to comb through so much open sea and whatever other islands there were around them.  But the same applied to SHIELD.  Maybe if they were lucky Rego had no idea _who_ he was up against.  Natasha had to give Rogers that much.  He was a force to be reckoned with.  Surely he could outrun, outfight, and outlast a bunch of pirates.

At any rate, Rogers was right.  They couldn’t stay here.  He appraised her.  “What’s SHIELD protocol for something like this?”

She gave a long breath.  “Find a way to signal our situation.  Hunker down and protect the 084.  Wait for extraction.”  It sounded simple enough.  It rarely was.

He seemed to realize that, but he didn’t say it.  “Alright.  Then let’s get further interior, try to get an idea of where we are and what we have to work with.  We shouldn’t operate on the assumption that SHIELD knows what happened.  Hopefully we can gather supplies and find some place safe to lay low.”

“I know,” she returned.  She was tempted to snap that at him; she didn’t _need_ him to tell her what to do or how to survive in a situation like this.  She was well-trained.  But she kept her vitriol to herself, both because it got them nothing ( _this is what it is – we’re stuck here_ ) and because, frankly, he didn’t deserve it.  He was a captain.  Telling people what to do was what he knew.  _Leading_ was what he knew.

He stared at her.  Then he slid his shield onto his back.  There was a sizeable bruise on his jaw, dirt on his face, and sand in his hair, but he looked… strong and confident.  And beautiful.  She couldn’t believe she was thinking that, but it was true.  “You ready?”

She snapped out of those thoughts and gathered herself.  “Yeah.”  He watched her a moment more, and for once, she couldn’t read him quite so well.  Then he nodded and turned to head deeper into the forest behind them.  “Wait.  Rogers.”  He stopped and pivoted, watching her expectantly.  It took a bit more to get the next words out of her mouth.  There was a lot she wanted to say, knew she _needed_ to say.  But in the end, this was all she could manage.  “Thanks.  I owe you.”

He seemed genuinely surprised at her gratitude, and that more than anything made that feeling of shame quickly resurface in her heart.  “It’s alright,” he said after a moment.  She took a step or two after him, relieved and finding they weren’t as difficult as they could have been, but then he stopped.  He was right in front of her.  “No, you know what?  It’s not alright.”  He heaved a short breath, battling with himself, and then deciding to go through with whatever he wanted to say.  “Listen, I don’t know what happened between us here.  Whatever we had going in New York is obviously not working for us now, and I don’t pretend to know why.  You shot me down before we even got started.”  The shame was hotter now and more pressing.  And his gaze was unwavering.  “When we get back to HQ, if you want to go to Fury and request your reassignment, fine.”  The tone of his voice suggested that still _wasn’t_ fine, but she didn’t stop him.  “I meant what I said.  I won’t stand in your way.  But right here, right now, we need to work together if we want to get off this island.  Okay?”  He stuck his hand forward.  It was a very well-defined gesture, professional and traditional, and somehow…

Somehow not at all what she wanted.

But she took it anyway.  And she shook it.  “Okay.”

He offered a tight smile before quickly dropping her hand and continuing into the forest.   And she followed him this time.  The apology she’d wanted to give him hadn’t come out, but as they walked deeper onto the island, she figured it was alright.  It seemed like they were going to be stuck together for at least a little while longer, so she had time.


	4. Chapter 4

They were definitely in Africa.  This island was extremely flat, a mixture of tropical forest and tropical savanna.  Natasha followed behind Rogers, sticking close to him as he plowed his way through the thick brush of the forest.  It was extremely overgrown, with huge trees that lifted lush canopies high into the sky and spread massive roots all over the forest floor that tripped them up and made their progress tedious.  Flowering vines and plants she’d never seen before brightly covered every imaginable surface.  It could have been beautiful were the circumstances different.  The ground was wet, a mossy, muddy mess of leaves and silt and pitfalls.  There wasn’t a path, and it was hard to keep a constant direction without being able to see the sky.  Rogers seemed to know where he was going, and she found herself willing to trust that because she was sadly disoriented within the first hour of their trek.  He was hacking his way through when the way was blocked; the edge of his shield was apparently rather sharp when it was thrust with all of his strength behind it, and he was using it to cut branches out of their way.  It was a noisy endeavor, a loud _thwacking_ that Natasha was fairly certain would attract anyone within earshot.  Still, she didn’t chastise him for making such a racket.  The vegetation was simply too thick, and their pace was already so miserably and annoyingly sluggish that the thought of going any slower was downright depressing.

And it was hot as hell.  At first the temperature hadn’t bothered her much, but as the minutes wore on and their march continued, the humidity was really starting to become a problem.  Each breath was like sucking hot air through a wet rag over her face.  The heat seeped into everything; her skin and her hair and beneath her uniform.  Sweat was collecting on her scalp and beneath her suit and on every exposed surface of her body, sticky and uncomfortable.  She could see it on him, too, beading in fat droplets on his neck and seeping through the dark blue cloth on the small of his back and across his shoulders.  The thick air was dragging her down like a physical weight, as much of an impediment as the grasping fingers of the forest snagging her clothes and hair.  Bugs buzzed around her, too, adding to the general unpleasantness of this little hike.  She could only pray they were actually getting somewhere, because everything looked the same.  Wide trunks and greenery so vivacious and bright that it actually seemed sick.  It was dizzying.

He didn’t seem impacted, though.  Aside from the perspiration covering him, he was apparently undisturbed.  She watched the muscles of his back and arms work hard to clear their path, drawn in probably more than she should have been.  He hadn’t said a thing since they’d left the beach, concentrating on the task at hand, and the silence wasn’t quite comfortable.  Not that it was _awkward_ , per se, but it was simply… bothersome.  Unfulfilling.  She made herself think it was fine, that she shouldn’t waste her breath and energy on something as stupid as chit chat (she didn’t do chit chat, at any rate).  But she didn’t like the quiet, which was disturbing since that had never been something that had concerned her in the past.  And she didn’t like the fact that he was outlasting her.  She could feel the strain of their trek starting to get to her.  Her injuries and the heat were exacerbating her fatigue, making it harder for her to keep up with his pace.  She didn’t think he’d noticed, and she wasn’t about to let him.  Maybe it was petty and completely ridiculous, but the thought of revealing any weakness or vulnerability in front of him was decidedly unappealing.  He’d already saved her life once; she didn’t want him thinking _at all_ that she needed his help.  She’d meant what she’d said about not being a damn damsel in distress.  What would he think if she couldn’t keep up or, God forbid, _passed out_ from heat exhaustion or something like that?

 _Not happening._   So she ignored the pain in her side from her bruised ribs and the sharp throbbing in her head and the fact that she was slowly sweating herself into dehydration.  He was Captain America, and he had that super soldier serum flowing in his veins, but he wasn’t stronger than her or more capable than her or more willing to endure physical discomfort.  _He wasn’t better than her._   She kept thinking that as she plodded on, focusing on sucking in and pushing out the hot, awful air as deeply and evenly as she could, on putting one foot ahead of the other and not tripping on the thousand things trying to bring her down.  _Keep going.  You can do this._   She wiped sweat from her brow, but that pretty much only smeared the wetness from the back of her hand onto her face and vice versa.  There wasn’t a dry spot on her.  _Keep going.  Get out of here.  Get back to DC.  Get this over with.  Get–_

“You need a break?”

His question took her completely aback.  And apparently he’d stopped, because she ran right into him.  She was exhausted and dazed enough nearly to lose her balance.  He was steadying her.  The edge of his shield was coated in green and mud, practically dripping with it, and it was wiped all over her as he took her arm.  She glared at him.  “No.”

He didn’t look convinced.  Sweat was thick in his hair and glistening on his face.  She had to admit it was kind of a good look on him.  Flushed with effort, eyes narrowed in doubt, skin shining.  “It’s okay if you need to stop.  You know the signs of heat exhaustion, right?”  She didn’t even dignify that with a response.  Instead she just shouldered past him, making certain not to touch him as she did.  She could feel his eyes on her, hard with irritation and analyzing.  “You know, it’s not weakness to admit you need help.”

“I don’t need help,” she retorted angrily, pushing branches aside.  She ignored her thirst and the ache of her body and the damn persistent throbbing of her head and drew her knife from her sheath.  She started hacking her way through the brush.  “And it’s not your job to help me even if I did.”

He huffed shortly at her, very clearly exasperated.  “I don’t know how it is with SHIELD, but in the army when someone was struggling, you stopped and carried ’em.”

“If that’s what you want, then go back to the army,” she muttered.

“Would you bite Barton’s head off if he suggested you take a breather?”

She turned and appraised him plainly.  “Absolutely.”

He seemed moderately surprised at that.  Then he shook his head, blowing out a breath upward hard enough to ruffle his hair.  “I don’t know why I thought otherwise.”

 _Because you don’t know me.  And even if you did know me, you wouldn’t understand me.  And you’re probably the most naïve person I’ve ever met._   She didn’t say any of that, though.  Arguing with him was too much effort.  She turned back to their unmarked path through the dense rainforest.  He didn’t make any attempt to retake the lead as she hacked and sawed and drove through the greenery in their way.  She had to admit a minute or two into this that it was harder than she thought.  Normally it might not have been so strenuous, but with her chest aching as sharply as it was, she was running out of energy and interest fast.  Not that her pride would allow her to admit that.  “You know which way we’re going?”

He didn’t make a show of coming up beside her or of helping her.  He just grabbed the brush she pulled away and tossed it behind them.  “I don’t,” he admitted.  “West, I think.”

“You think.”

He wasn’t interested in arguing with her, either, but his voice was tight with irritation.  “Not like I can see the sky.  Feel free to correct me.”

She gritted her teeth.  After pushing through the latest wall of vegetation, their way opened slightly.  She sheathed her knife, standing still for a moment to catch her breath.  She set her hands to her hips.  Rogers stopped beside her, wincing as he looked ahead.  To the right was a river, swollen and thick with brown water.  The rainforest embraced it in very close quarters, spreading out over the muddy embankment.  Palm and other deciduous trees leaned out over it, dripping vines into the water like gangly fingers.  The river was rushing rather rapidly, and it was wide enough to make fording it a difficult prospect.  The other shore was a couple hundred feet away.  “Great,” she said around a sigh.

He looked out over the significant obstacle.  It was obvious the river was unnaturally high, and it was sweeping and sucking at the forest where it dropped off a few feet down.  He looked up and down the length of it.  “You want to swim it?”

It was impossible to tell how deep it was.  The water was too murky and too thick with dirt.  And it was impossible to tell what dangers lay hidden beneath the brown surface.  It was probably silly, but she had this vision of piranhas and snakes and crocodiles snapping at her as she tried to traverse the distance.  She had a feeling he’d be able to swim it, but she couldn’t be sure.  And she didn’t want to put herself in a position to fail, not when going forward seemed just as good a prospect as going across.  They had no idea where they were, so there was no way to tell if chancing the river was a risk worth taking.  “Let’s just follow it,” she said after a moment.  “See where it takes us.”

That was a good a plan as any, and Rogers seemed to agree, offering up a nod.  They stepped back from the sloping mess of the shoreline, retreating into the cover of the woods.  At least the river provided a fixed landmark, and as long as they stayed within earshot of the swishing waters, they could be fairly certain they were going in a relatively straight line.  They proceeded in silence for a bit longer.  Although their situation wasn’t measurably any better, she _felt_ better knowing that river was there.  It reduced the vertigo inherent in wandering seemingly aimlessly through an unending sea of green.  A disturbing thought had been lurking in the back of her head for a while now that maybe there was _nothing_ on this island.  No inhabitants.  No civilization.  No way to get off, let alone get a message to SHIELD.  She’d tried to ignore that worry, but it was hard to completely dismiss the very real possibility that they were in trouble beyond what they could overcome.  They couldn’t _walk_ their way across the ocean.

Maybe an hour later, she was realizing their pace was drastically slowing, and it was slowing because of her.  Her ribs were so painful that walking was really becoming a trying torture.  Rogers noticed, of course, but he didn’t say anything.  Instead he just wordlessly took over leading them again.  He glanced at her often, worry plain in his eyes, and she was too miserable to call him out on it.  A little while longer they trudged.  Then he stopped.  “Need a minute,” he claimed, leaning wearily against a wide tree trunk.  She watched him trying to catch his breath.  He wasn’t a very good actor; as if there’d been any need for proof, this stunning display of over-compensation and ineptitude was pretty solid evidence that Captain America was shit at lying.  Still, she was so worn at this point that doing anything more than rolling her eyes was too much work.  She sank to the forest floor.  She braced herself against a tree as well and let her eyes slip shut.  It was too hard to breathe deeply; her abdominal muscles were in knots from walking with bruised ribs, and the humidity had somehow managed to get worse as the afternoon had gone on.  Panting was about all she could do to fill her straining lungs with much needed air, so she did, putting a marginal amount of effort into trying not to seem as beaten and wearied as she actually was.

“We’re both gonna get dehydrated fast,” Rogers commented.  She didn’t want to tell him that she was pretty sure she already was.  “We have to find some water.”  He was looking around, like there could randomly be some right where they were.  She shook her head at him, too tired to find that annoying (or cute, and it was, if she could be honest with herself).  And prophetic, apparently.  Something huge and wet splattered on her nose, and she jerked back.  Her sudden motion attracted his attention, and he turned to her in worry.  Then a few more drops landed on him and he looked up.  That was about all the warning they had before the hidden sky literally cracked open and dumped sheets of rain on them.

 _Goddamn it._   The noise alone was deafening.  Thunder aside, the sound of the rain punishing the forest was loud enough to drown out everything else.  They were both drenched in a heartbeat.  Rogers immediately came closer to her.  She could hardly think and hardly hear him shouting.  “Are you okay?”

She wasn’t, really.  It was clichéd, and she knew it, but she couldn’t stop wondering if this situation could possibly get any worse.  “We need to get out of this!” she called back.  “Find shelter!”

That was about as laughable as finding water (although she supposed she could just stick her tongue out at this point.  She was thirsty enough to actually consider doing it, as dumb and silly as it was).  Rogers was squinting in the teeming rain, spinning around, clearly trying to get his bearings.  Everything was a smear of gray and green, the rain coming down so hard and so fast it was reducing their visibility down to essentially nothing.  “Come on!”

Gracelessly, she pulled herself to her feet.  “Where are we going?” she cried over the din.

“Forward!”  Water ran in a stream off his chin as he gestured ahead like that was a reasonable answer.  She supposed it was.  They couldn’t stay where they were, and without knowing where they were going, continuing on the path they were on seemed like a good idea as any.  As soon as they spotted something (a low hanging tree, a thicket, an overlying rock) that could provide some protection both from the elements and from whoever might be pursuing them, they could stop.

It didn’t take long at all for the pelting rain to turn the already soft and infirm ground into a veritable mud pit.  Every step turned even more difficult, the dirt and forest detritus combining into a sucking morass eager to trap her boots and drag her down.  Rogers was right in front of her, his hair plastered to his face.  In the poor light and soaking rain, his uniform was nearly black.  His steps were heavy and slow.  Given her rapidly worsening mood, the fact that he was struggling was immensely (and childishly) satisfying; at least she wasn’t the only one suffering.  The storm raged on, blasting them with a monsoon-like burst of wind every now and then.  As they labored through the onslaught, she realized with chagrin that this was probably the rainy season, which would explain why everything was moist and overly green and why the river seemed to be bursting at its sides.  That probably meant the storm wasn’t simply a passing squall.  The skies seemed intent on drowning them and were settling in for a long haul.  Natasha grimaced in discomfort.  She’d been in tough situations before – frozen and wet and dirty and injured and pretty damn well miserable – but this was unpleasant in an entirely new way.  It wasn’t even a refreshing rain, closer to being doused in boiling water than anything else.  Every drop cut.  Every splatter felt heavy and mean.  Pretty soon her feet were wet inside her boots and her uniform was heavy and chaffing and she felt absolutely water-logged and _this is hell._

“Here!”  Rogers stopped a step or so ahead of her.  He lifted his shield and held it above her like an umbrella.  “You look like a drowned cat!”

The way he was staring at her, open and earnest and just trying to be helpful, stopped a cranky retort from ever forming in her head.  “Thanks,” she said instead, limping closer to him again so as to stay under the meager protection of his shield.  He was significantly taller than her, and it obviously wasn’t a burden for him to keep his arm up (even for a length of time) so she could be somewhat drier.  The rain hummed against the vibranium.

They walked like this for a bit.  It was awkward, being close to him but not close enough to touch him.  And it was difficult staying that way so as to keep herself under his shield, but she managed.  It wasn’t broad enough to cover them both, and he held it mostly over her.  Chivalrous.  And… _sweet_.  She really did appreciate it.  The terrain was sloping here, a steeper hill that ran down into the river to their right.  She kept stumbling over roots and ruts, the ground slick and uncooperative under her feet.  Eventually he dispensed with trying to maintain the once hard and fast few inches between them, wrapping an arm around her back to pull her to his side and keeping them both as dry and as stable as possible.  And she let him.  Having him close was surprisingly comforting, a grounding force in a deluge that was rapidly becoming dizzying and disorienting.  Whether the renewed vertigo was from her concussion or her exhaustion, she found herself leaning more and more into his flank.  He was sturdy and strong, and it was all too easy _(I shouldn’t be doing this)_ to sink into that.  She didn’t stop herself.

But he stopped her.  Suddenly, no less.  And she’d been drifting, so she staggered a little.  His arm tightened around her to help her keep her balance, and then he cautiously stepped away.  “You hear that?” he asked.

She couldn’t hear anything beyond the occasional crack of thunder, the rain driving into _everything_ , and her own heartbeat pulsing in her head.  “Hear what?”

He moved further away, lowering his shield.  He turned around, clearly concentrating, his jaw set and eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.  “Sounds like a train.”  She still didn’t hear anything, but she tried harder, working to parse the roar of the storm from whatever was in the background.  “Like something big’s coming.”

It never even occurred to her to doubt him.  She knew the super soldier serum had enhanced his senses to very pinnacle of human perfection, so if he heard something, then there was something to hear.  Her heart thudded faster, her stomach clenching in dismay.  A few anxious seconds escaped with the two of them holding absolutely still in the downpour, listening and waiting and dreading.

Then she heard it.

 _Oh, God._   “Mudslide!” he cried.  His warning came too late.  A wall of brown and green came rushing down the hill.  It poured onto them with all the force of an avalanche of dirt and debris, sweeping them both off their feet.  Natasha cried out as she was knocked over and away, the filthy water dragging her down the hill.  She struggled senselessly, reaching for something, _anything_ , to slow her tumble.  Everything was a wet blur of mud and tree trunks and rain, and despite her flailing, her fingers only dug through mud and earth that ripped away.  Water flooded her mouth, choking her.  She seemed to slide helplessly forever.

But she didn’t.  Vaguely she realized the massive brown streak in front of her was the river, and she was racing toward it.  There was no time to draw a deep breath as she was thrown from the embankment, carried by the onslaught of mud and water.  She spun weightlessly before hitting the river hard, and the next thing she knew, she was drowning again.  She kicked, propelling herself upward in the darkness.  When she broke the surface, she sucked in the breath she hadn’t been able to take before, desperately filling her burning lungs.

Her relief was short lived.  The river was moving and moving fast, and it was taking her with it.  The current tugged at her, dragging her away from the shore and deeper into its embraces.  She went under again, yanked beneath the surface by a vicious shift in the flow.  Water closed over her head, plugging her ears and blinding her.  Scrambling, she reached for a dark blob to her left.  It was a submerged, sludge covered tree limb, and as she raced by she was able to get a hold of it.  The river wrenched her away, but she refused to let go.  She pushed herself to the surface again, bracing her body against the rotting, breaking wood.  “Rogers!” she cried.  Over the cacophony of the beating rain and the roar of the waters swirling and rushing, she couldn’t hear him.  She couldn’t see him.  “Rogers!  _Rogers!_ ”  Where was he?  Panic coiled tightly in her belly, and she could hardly think for a moment as she clung tightly and frantically looked around.  She couldn’t see him!

_Where is he?_

The branch cracked, the rotted wood giving out against her weight, and she was dragged forward again.  And something hard and firm slammed into her back.  “Hang on!”  It was him.  His right arm wrapped around her, his left reaching back wildly in an attempt to grasp the mess of branches and roots spreading into the water.  He missed.  “Damn it!”

The river took them both.  They were carried down rapids, twists that were overfilled with water that was pouring down from the sky and the sloping terrain beyond.  Natasha held tight to Rogers’ arm; there was no choice at this point but simply to try to stay together and avoid getting hurt.  Fighting the current was utterly impossible, and they were moving so fast, too fast to think let alone find a way to stop themselves.  The world was a wet blur of rain and mud.  Natasha gasped as they were swept violently under the surface again.  She sputtered, not having drawn a full breath, kicking to wrest herself free from the river’s choking hold.  Water sloshed in her face as she did, water thick with dirt and leaves.  She blinked it from her eyes, disoriented and heaving for air, digging her nails into Rogers’ forearm.  She barely got a chance to glance at him before they were whipped to the side again.  They were tossed about like debris, dragged and rolled and beaten against trees and rocks and branches.  It seemed to go on forever.  A few times they were ripped away from each other, but they struggled back, her fingers tightly balling in his uniform and his secure on her arm.  _Hang on.  Hang on!_

She held on, and so did he.  The water got thicker, muddier.  Shallower.  They were dragged along the riverbed, twisting against each other.  Water ended up in her mouth again, and she gagged.  The riverbed abruptly dropped, the current shoving them down a small waterfall.  They plunged into the pool below.  Even that didn’t slow them, though.  They were ripped apart, and Natasha strained to reach for him in vain.  In one split second, she got a better look at him.  He was bleeding from his lip, banged up and about to become even more so as he was unceremoniously and mercilessly thrown into a huge pile of fallen trunks and branches.  The mess was directly in front of him, and he slammed into it with a wrangled cry.  The entire mess of branches shifted with the impact.  Natasha whirled, yanked under the surface again by the current.  Hungry and cruel, the river sucked her down under the blockade of tree limbs.  She struggled with everything she had, kicking and pushing to free herself.  When she managed to get her bearings and pull another shuddering breath into her lungs and look for him, he was gone again.

 _No._   “Rogers!” she hoarsely cried, squirming against the power of the water shoving her into the trees.  That awful sense of panic clawed its way over her again, and she wildly glanced around the flood of rain and river.  _Where?  Where?_   She held on to one of the sturdier of the branches, refusing to be swept away, believing whole-heartedly that he had to be there someplace.  _Where?_

Thunder cracked and lightning flashed, and that was a blessing in disguise because it glinted off of something under the water.  Something silver.  A star.  _His shield._   It was a good ten feet to her left, far down beneath the tangled knot of branches and moss and vines.  She spent a moment gathering herself, taking a few deep breaths.  God, her chest hurt.  _Ignore it.  Find him._   The last lungful she held inside, and she dove.

The river was intent on pulling her away, but she didn’t let it.  She held tight to the mangled, sludgy tree branches and swam down.  It was nearly impossible to see through the mud, but she caught another glimpse of his shield and focused on it, not blinking or looking away despite the burning in her eyes.  As she got closer, she saw he was trapped under a large tree trunk.  The water was not that deep.  His leg was crushed beneath tree, pinning him to the gooey, sludgy riverbed.  He was struggling but doing so sluggishly, and she saw a faint tint of red in the water around his head, seeping from a gash behind his left ear.  He had his hands beneath the trunk and was trying to lift it, but it was still anchored into the ground by its roots; obviously it had tipped as the embankment had eroded.  Natasha grabbed his shoulders, alerting him to her presence.  Then she slid her hands beside his and pulled.  It wasn’t too easy without any leverage, and their first attempt was so uncoordinated that it earned them nothing.  Natasha’s lungs were absolutely burning, demanding that she surface and take a breath, but she didn’t.  She wasn’t going to leave him.  She shared a glance with him, a firm, calm look, and when they tried again, they lifted in unison.  Rogers fought hard, finally pulling his leg free.  She took his arm and dragged him to the surface.

They emerged together, coughing and gasping and fighting for air.  “You alright?” she asked over the noise.  He sputtered, shaking against her.  She held him tight.  The river was widening, slowing almost to the point where they weren’t being chaotically tossed around like ragdolls.  Ahead was another small waterfall, but they weren’t going over it.  Not this time.  Rogers composed himself and started swimming awkwardly against the slower current; it seemed like his leg wasn’t functioning right, and getting to the side of the river was harder than it should have been for him.  But he got there, pulling her with him.  He lifted himself up out of the water with a huge splash and a grunt of effort, snatching a gnarled, low-lying branch from a tree on the bank.  He reached out his other hand to her, and she took it, letting him drag her.  He lifted her one handed out of the water, uncaring that she was dripping all over his face, and tossed her back into the rainforest.

Being on firm(ish) ground felt marvelous, ridiculously so, and Natasha shuddered before turning to reach for him.  He was already lifting himself out of the river, however, and thankfully the branch he was holding stayed intact despite the strain on it.  He climbed onto the muddy embankment, bruised and scraped up.  She watched him laboring to catch his breath with his hands planted on his knees.  She was doing much the same herself, tipping her head back and closing her eyes.  The close call was seemingly unreal.  She couldn’t shake the lingering panic or the all-encompassing relief that it was over.

Only it wasn’t quite.  One small step had the ground _disappear_ from under her.  Natasha gave a ragged cry, the overly saturated, unsettled soil falling away from her boots.  _Not again!_   She felt him grab for her, his fingers snatching her shoulder, but the destabilizing slide of soil and moss spread like wildfire under his feet, too, and he was slipping right after her.  She caught a flash of dark blue as he twisted and ended up on his side.  That was all she could see before they were once again absolutely buried in mud.

Thankfully, they didn’t fall back into the river.  And, thankfully, they didn’t have far to go.  The ground dropped steeply alongside the short waterfall.  Natasha rolled, realizing she was heading for the edge a split second before she got there.  She scrambled to latch onto the plants around her, but they all simply ripped loose.  Then she was flying, tumbling, and landing in the mud below hard on her back.

And he landed right on top of her.

The air rushed out of her lungs again as he crushed her, a hard, huge weight slamming her down.  Lord, he was heavy.  His hips were pushing her legs wide, and his face was buried right in the valley between her breasts.  Neither of them so much as shifted from where they’d landed for what seemed like a long time, gasping and reeling and afraid that the mere act of moving would land them into more trouble.  Everything was spinning.  She could feel him panting into her collarbone, hot, wet, quick brushes of air.  And she was breathing shallowly herself, too shocked to think.

Then he jolted up like he’d been hit by lightning.  “Sorry!”  Clumsily he scrambled off her, sending mud splattering all over them both.  He turned away before she could really be certain, but she thought he was bright, _bright_ red with a blush.  “Sorry!  Sorry.  You alright?”

An odd thing to ask considering he wasn’t even looking at her.  “Yeah,” she said.  “I’m alright.”  She tenderly pushed herself up and took stock of her body.  Aside from a new slew of scrapes and bruises and being absolutely _covered_ in mud, she actually was alright.

And still reeling with how _good_ it had felt to have him weightlessly sprawled on top of her.

She swallowed down the fast-paced pumping of her heart.  Her cheeks felt hot.  _Hot._   _God, what the hell?  Am I…_ She banished it all, gathering the tattered remains of her composure.  “You?”

He tested his leg.  His shield looked absolutely pathetic as smeared with dirt and grime as it was.  His hair was almost brown it was caked so thickly with mud.  It would almost be comical, Captain America looking like Swamp Thing, if it wasn’t for the fact she knew she looked about the same.  He gazed around.  The rain was still coming down, though not quite as violently, and he experimentally took another step into the mud, grimacing all the way.  “Yeah, I’m…  Ah, what the hell.  You’ve got to be kidding.”

She drove her elbows into the thick, vicious slime beneath her and climbed to her feet.  Her eyes widened.  _No._ “Is that…”

“Yeah.”  _Damn it._   “The beach.”

* * *

After walking all afternoon only to end up pretty much back where they started, they quit.  The thought of trying to breach the forest again was rejected before it had even been fully explored.  They were both tired, even Captain America, and banged up.  And night was falling.  Wandering through the thickness of the woods during the day had been impossible enough.  Without any light to guide them?  Suicidal.  Therefore, as depressing as it was, they found themselves thinking about making camp within walking distance of where they’d washed ashore the night before.

Natasha decided not to worry about that.  It was too damn frustrating.  And Rogers silently decided against it, anyway.  She found herself following him as he plodded along the edge of the forest.  She was pretty certain he was leading them south by the last light of the sun, and she was completely sure he was just going so as not to feel like they’d wasted the entire day.  This was fruitless.  There was nothing worth finding further down the beach, nothing but more jungle and sand.  It was raining still, slower and heavier, as if the sky was tired of crying but sadly unable to stop itself.  Part of her preferred the horrendous deluge of before; at least that would have washed away the gunk matted in her hair and the filth ingrained into her skin.  As it was, she felt completely disgusting and smelled like rotting forest.  She had leaves and twigs stuck all over her and mud in places she didn’t even want to acknowledge.  She was exhausted and sore and hungry.  _This is fun.  Seriously._   “What exactly are you looking for?”

Ahead, he turned around.  There was dirt smeared all over his face and blood crusted behind his ear.  He looked about as good as she felt.  “Same thing as before.  Something we can use as shelter.  Supplies.”

“Seems like a longshot,” she declared grumpily.

“Probably is,” he conceded.  He sounded fairly calm and complacent despite the hell of the afternoon.  It was annoying, and she didn’t have patience for it now.  “But if there’s a chance there’s something here…  This island can’t be uninhabited.”

“Sure about that?”

Clearly he wasn’t.  “The world’s a lot smaller of a place than it was a few months ago.  For me, anyway.”

She supposed that was true.  Technology had fairly well removed the unknown, at least in terms of land exploration.  Still, that didn’t mean this island was inhabited.  Or safe, which was a bigger concern the more she considered it.  “I think this is one of the islands off of Guinea-Bissau in western Africa.  If that’s the case, we could be in trouble.  The archipelago’s sparsely populated, and SHIELD’s been monitoring the area for pirate and narcotics traffic on and off for years.”

He wasn’t pleased with that.  But all he said was, “We need water.”

 _No shit._   She’d swallowed more than her fair share of it, water that was probably contaminated with microbes and bacteria and who knew what else.  She remembered from reading Rogers’ file that he couldn’t get sick; the serum protected him from infection.  And the serum to which she’d been exposed in the Red Room conferred some resilience against disease but not enough to drink the water here safely.  The rainwater was something, but they didn’t even have anything in which they could collect it.  _Maybe he’ll offer up his shield._   Not that finding water was enough.  They needed food.  And even if they could find food…  “Surviving isn’t going to matter unless we can contact SHIELD.  We’re so far from the crash site that they might not be able to find us.”

He sighed, turning back to her.  “One thing at a time, okay?  Let’s just see if we can find–”

“What?” she demanded.

“ _Something_ ,” he returned adamantly, his voice tight with frustration like he couldn’t fathom not having absolute faith in them getting out of this.  She stared at him, not quite believing him.  She knew the stories of Captain America, had seen it firsthand even.  Getting up right away when he’d been knocked down.  Hope that went beyond optimism, beyond determination into bravery.  There was a thin line between delusion and faith, though, and right now, as bruised and exhausted as she was, she couldn’t believe there was _anything_ here to find, no matter how hard he wanted to look for it.

He sighed slowly through his nose.  “Look, if you want to stay here, rest…  It’s fine.  I’ll keep checking up and down the beach.  Maybe go inland a little again.  I can see well enough at night, and I don’t need sleep.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to split up,” she responded simply.

“I’ll be able to find you.”

“Doesn’t matter.”  She didn’t doubt that he could, but that wasn’t enough to make her feel satisfied.  And she sure as hell was not going to tell him that she wanted him nearby for her own peace of mind.  She wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: the thought of being left alone on this god-forsaken spit of land and having to worry about him being okay (she didn’t do worry) or the thought of being responsible for losing Captain America on his first official mission for SHIELD.  Either way, she wasn’t letting him out of her sight.  “Let’s keep going until it’s dark,” she decided.  That sounded like a reasonable compromise.

They walked on in silence, listening to the much gentler patter of the rain and the swish and swell of the ocean.  The grim determination was gone from his step, and his pace was slower.  It was barely noticeable, but she saw it, and his lessened enthusiasm wasn’t for her benefit this time.  Eventually, just as the last gray light of day was vanishing, they reached a little inlet.  It was rockier here, the waves breaking against larger boulders, and the island dipped down into a secluded cove.  Something that was too large to be a stream but too small to be a river was languidly emptying into the ocean.  The trees were tall and thick, hanging over the water as though to provide some pleasant cover from both the sun and prying eyes.  Once again, somebody somewhere would probably consider this a tropical paradise.  As it was, she was just glad to see the wrecked remains of a small yacht shoved up against one of the boulders.

Immediately they sought cover.  The larger rocks provided some and a good vantage to determine who, if anyone, was around the boat.  Rogers was silent beside her, angling around to watch.  The yacht seemed abandoned, probably having run aground during a storm or some such.  It was capsized and laying on its port side.  There was a significant tear in its hull and enough rust around the gash to suggest it hadn’t happened too recently but not so much as to indicate it had been there for ages.  They observed for a little while longer before deciding it was safe to proceed.  Silently and stealthily they approached, spreading out without verbal communication and remaining on high alert as they searched the area.  Aside from the ship, there was nothing.

Still, they were cautious.  Wading through the water by the rocks, Rogers hopped up a good ten feet to the top of one of the boulders.  He nodded to her, and she nodded back, finding a decent hiding spot where she could see up and down the surrounding beach and monitor the inlet.  He leapt onto the boat, perfectly maintaining his balance despite the curve of the hull and the rain-slicked fiberglass.  She lost sight of him as he climbed over the railing.  Seconds later she heard a dull thud and a crash, like a door being kicked open.

Natasha blew out a long breath, crouching between the waves and rocks.  It was getting dark quickly now, the sun long dipping below the horizon.  She could see hints of gold along distant clouds across the rippling slate of the ocean.  In a matter of minutes, it would be night.  And if he wasn’t back by then, she was going in after him.

But he was, of course.  Just as the last light faded, he emerged from the top of the capsized yacht.  There was a bag slung over his shoulder.  He jumped straight down into the ocean with a sizeable splash and walked over to her, breathing a little heavily.  “Two people.  A couple.  They’re dead and have been for a while.”  He looked a tad bothered by that, and she wondered how gruesome the corpses had been.  “The control panel in there is busted.  And even if it wasn’t, there’s no power to anything.  The engine room is completely submerged.”  That pretty much blew using the ship to get a message to SHIELD right out of the water.  Even if they could get to the engine, if it had been flooded for any period of time, there was likely no salvaging it.  Plus they’d probably have to rely on him, he who had no idea about modern technology, to fix it.

“Has anyone else been here?” she asked.

He nodded solemnly.  “Unless they ransacked their own stuff before they crashed.”  Natasha gritted her teeth.  Pirates.  Scavengers.  It didn’t matter.  The best they could do at this point was hope whoever had looted (and maybe even contributed to causing the wreck) were long gone.  He gestured to the bag.  “But, on a lighter note, they had clothes.”  _Thank God._   “And a first aid kit.  The food’s no good, but there are plenty of bottles of water.”  He reached into the duffel and pulled out a flask of what looked like vodka.  “And antiseptic.”

She cocked an eyebrow.  “Where I come from we drink that, not waste it.”  She wasn’t entirely facetious about that.  “And you don’t need to look so smug.”

He wiped the smile off his face.  “I’m not.”  But he was.  And with good reason.

Even she had to admit it.  The relief at _having_ supplies was enough to motivate her to be honest.  “You were right about there being something worth finding.”

He actually colored at the compliment.  “Doesn’t get us any closer to finding a way out of this.”

“No,” she agreed, “but it gets us closer to surviving until we do.  Come on.”

Together they walked through the surf back to the surrounding beach.  It was an unspoken decision to venture deeper into the inlet, and they picked a path to a hidden place further in the cove.  The trees were thicker here, shorter with broad, low canopies that made them ideal for concealment.  And the ground was drier and firmer, comprised of grass and sand.  Steve found a place fairly close to the water’s edge.  He set down their newly acquired supplies, pulled two plastic bottles of water from the duffel, and tossed one to her.  She plunked down tiredly on the mossy ground, taking off the cap and guzzling the drink.  It was good, a tad old and stale, but refreshing.  The taste of mud seemed permanently ingrained into her tongue.  He was gulping down his own bottle with his head tipped back.  She couldn’t help but stare a moment, watching as those full lips closed around the top of the bottle, as the muscles of his throat worked hard at sucking it dry.  It was oddly mesmerizing.  She managed to avert her eyes before he caught her staring (which was good, because how the hell was she going to explain that?).

Done with his drink, he tossed the empty bottle into the bag.  Then he secured their camp with military efficiency, checking for places that had a good vantage of their surroundings while making sure they were adequately hidden.  He pushed through something of a curtain of leaves and vines on the north side, heading down to the little river.  He was back a moment later.  “Water’s clean,” he announced.  He dug into the duffel a moment before pulling something out.  It was a small cardboard box, and he threw it her way.  “Here.  In case you want it.”

It was bar soap.  A fancy kind, heavily perfumed.  He’d probably pilfered it from the yacht’s bathroom.  The fact that he’d thought to do that (for her) was touching.  “Thanks.”

“Sure.  I’ll keep watch if you want to get cleaned up.”  She did want to.  Desperately.  “There are some clean clothes in the bag there.  Sorry if they don’t fit.  And sorry if they smell a little like mildew.”

It took more effort than it should have to get back to her feet, but she masked her grimace.  She crouched at the bag, leafing through the contents until she found a woman’s set of capris pants and a few different shirts.  She selected a simple cotton tank top.  Everything was nicely made and high-quality, but it did smell a little bit like mold, even the couple of towels he’d found.  She left one for him.  Then she slowly walked through that make-shift curtain and made her way down to the cove.  He was right; the water here was immaculate compared to the muddy hell into which they’d fallen earlier.  It was calm, glassy, speckled by the drops of rain still gently cascading into it.  She hesitated a moment.  She’d undressed in plenty of strange and awkward situations before, so this shouldn’t have been so bothersome.  But it was.  She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if he was watching.  In the thickness of the warm, wet night, she could barely see his outline up the little hill and behind the vegetation.  The thought of him spying on her was… well, exciting.  The memory of how red he’d gone when he’d face-planted in her breasts...  It was empowering in a way it shouldn’t have been.  She’d had plenty of men ogle her in the past, practically slavering over her, and she’d used that against them, wielding sex and lust and attraction as a tool.  But with him…  The urge to use him and abuse him, to teach him a lesson about _who_ had the control…  That wasn’t there.  She wondered then if he’d had a girl back in his time or if he really was as clueless and pathetic around women as he seemed.

Maybe not even around women.  Maybe just around _her._

_Way too empowering._

So part of her was definitely hoping he was watching as she unzipped her cat suit and peeled it off.  She removed her undergarments, grabbed the soap, and waded out into the warm lagoon.  Methodically she washed the grime off, taking a better look at her injuries as she did.  Her ribs were black and blue and tender to the touch.  She had a new array of cuts and bruises, all of which she washed carefully.  The water came away brown with mud as she scrubbed the caked-on filth and forest detritus.  Finally she attacked her hair, lathering up the soap and picking out the mats and snarls as she washed.  When she was through, she dunked herself under the water to rinse.  She emerged, arching her back slightly to get her hair out of her face.  She breathed deeply of the warm air, standing in the water and listening to the music of insects buzzing, chirping, and singing.  It felt good to be clean, to have a moment to breathe.

But she didn’t linger too long.  Quietly she slipped through the water and headed back to the shore.  She toweled herself dry and dressed again.  The capris pants were a little big; she cinched the tie at the waist as tight as possible.  The tank was large as well.  Still, being in cooler, dry clothes that _breathed_ was glorious.  Wrapping her damp hair up, she gathered her things and went back.

He was facing the other way, pointedly so, with his arms crossed obstinately over his chest and his shield on his back.  Despite how quietly she crept through the grass, he heard her immediately and turned.  He offered up a timid smile.  “Alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Need me to help patch anything up?”

“No.”

“Okay.  Mind if I…”

“Be my guest.”  She tossed the soap back at him.  He’d already gathered up the men’s clothes and the other towel.  He disappeared, ducking underneath the drooping branches.  She wasn’t as restrained as he’d been, waiting only a few moments before shamelessly positioning herself to get a good look down the little hill to the water.  Despite the mesh of green, she had a pretty decent view of him.  Absently she raked her fingers through her hair to work the remainder of the snarls out of it as she watched.  He unzipped his uniform and pulled it off.  Even at this distance, she could see the mottled mess of bruising all over his torso; a lot of that hadn’t been there before, so it must have come from the mudslide and their jaunt down the river.  He was moving more slowly, carefully, like he was letting his guard down now that he thought he was alone.  He was even allowing himself to limp as he walked into the water, and she felt just the tiniest bit bad for all the crap she’d given him earlier that day.  And he was wearing boxers.  Blue ones.  For some reason that surprised her.  _Huh._

God, this was childish.  And weak and pathetic.  _I’m not like this._ But she was, for the moment at least.  Her faculties seemed to go on hiatus, as they had every other time she’d scoped him out since they’d left DC, and she unabashedly stared as he washed himself off.  The breeze rustled the leaves, and she shifted and angled her neck automatically to reclaim her line of sight.  He was fully in the lagoon now, working the soap over his chest and arms.  Everything she’d imagined before was on full display for her to appreciate.  She watched, entranced at the way his muscles moved, at the way the water shone on them and the way the frothy, muddy liquid sluiced down his pecs and those ridiculously perfect abs to the V of his hips.  There was something about that, about _him_ , that intrigued her.  He looked _exactly_ like who he was.  What he was.  Open.  Honest.  Good.  Powerful.  _Beautiful._   There were no lies, no masks, no illusions.  It was new and intimidating and… _addicting_.  His biceps flexed impressively as he reached up to wash his hair, the thick lather of soap slipping down the smooth, glistening skin of his neck, shoulders, and back, and then down further.  _Stop watching.  Stop it._

She didn’t stop, and the more she stared, the more heat coiled low in her belly.  Delicious heat.  She hadn’t felt anything like that in a long time, lust untainted by the constraints of a mission.  True desire.  Her skin tingled with the memory of his weight on top of her.  Tingled and ached and _get a goddamn hold of yourself._

Finally he rinsed himself off, disappearing below the surface of the water for what felt like a really long time.  And finally she made herself look away, combing through her hair again.  A few minutes later he was back.  And she couldn’t help the laugh bursting softly through her lips.  “What?” he asked in confusion.

“You.  Dressed like that.”  The khaki shorts were fine, a little tight about the waist (which only made his butt attract her attention more than it already did), but the shirt was… not him.  Some sort of tacky, garish Hawaiian atrocity covered in surf boards and margarita glasses.  He looked ridiculous.

He shook his head.  “Not like I had a choice.  All the guy had was stuff like this.  I’m lucky it fits.”  It barely did.

Silently he cleaned up their stuff, putting his uniform (which he’d clearly washed out and neatly folded) into the bag.  He had the pouch with the 084.  She’d nearly forgotten about it.  He stared at it a moment before dumping the gem into his hand.  It was pristine, undamaged, glowing faintly on his palm.  Once again, it was a minor miracle they hadn’t lost it.  He slipped it back into the pouch and returned the pouch to his pocket.  Then he looked at her.  “Hey, um…  Thanks.  For helping me get loose back there.”

She nodded.  “Not a big deal.”

He seemed coy.  She didn’t think he had the capacity to be that.  “Does this mean we’re even?”

“I don’t think me helping you get your foot out really compares to you saving me from an exploding jet, getting me breathing again, and then swimming us a hundred miles to shore.”  She said that lightly, but in truth, it irked her.  She was indebted to him, and she didn’t like the feeling.  She’d gotten used to it with Clint, though she’d returned the favor enough since Beijing that the shame wasn’t so sharp.

He smiled like what she’d said was a compliment while he finished puttering with their stuff.  “It’s not a contest, you know.  You don’t need to prove anything to me.  I know who you are.”

The anger she wanted to feel at his presumptuousness didn’t come.  “You don’t know who I am.”

His smile faltered uncomfortably.  “Alright, maybe not.  But I know what you’re capable of.”

 _You don’t know that, either._   Still, she didn’t correct him, and it turned quiet.  The cove was still.  The bugs were less insistent in their chirping.  Even the rain slowed to a soft, unimposing drizzle as though the world was bedding down for the night.  He sat across from her and pulled his shield into his lap, taking the damp towel to it.  In the meager light, she could see bruising down the side of his head that went under the collar of his shirt.  His arms were covered in cuts and scrapes, but they were already faded to the point where they were practically gone.  She wondered how it was, healing so quickly.  The Red Room’s serum had made her resilient but nothing like the sort of regenerative properties the original super soldier serum afforded him.  She was asking before she thought better of it.  “What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Being turned into Captain America.”

He looked up at her, stopping in his cleaning, eyes bright with surprise.  She wondered how often anyone actually cared to ask him that.  And she wondered if he was shocked that _she_ was the one asking.  “Hurt a little,” he said.

That wasn’t the answer she was expecting.  She’d thought he’d spout off some long, well-rehearsed garbage about honor and glory and fighting for the American way.  Instead that was frank.  And truthful.  And sobering, in a way.  Real.  “Why’d you do it?”  He propped his newly cleaned shield up beside him.  Then he resettled himself with his legs bent at the knees and his forearms braced on them.  She shrugged a little.  “You didn’t know it would work.  And it was dangerous.  So why let them change you into something else?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he said evenly but not heatedly.  She felt a cold tingle of dismay crawl up the small of her back, and anger ached in her heart, demanding that she close off and shut him out.  However, he didn’t press.  He just let out a long breath.  “The world was goin’ to war.  I needed to fight, just like everyone else was.  I wanted to stand up for what I believe in.  Do my part to protect people.  Stop the bullies.”  He gave a rueful smile.  “Project: Rebirth was the only way I could do any of that.”

That answer made perfect sense coming from Steve Rogers, not Captain America.  She was beginning to see that, as much as they were the same person, there were differences.  Captain America was cool confidence and mastery on the battlefield and a commanding, righteous, intimidating presence.  Steve Rogers was all of that, but so much _more._ “Would you do it again, if you had a chance to go back?”

“What?  Become Captain America?”  His eyes narrowed slightly.  “Or fly a plane full of bombs into the ice?  That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t.  Not really.  It wasn’t her business.  And the hurt and ire in his voice suggested this wasn’t something he wanted to talk about with anyone, let alone with her.  They were strangers.  She knew that, and it wasn’t her place to be asking him about his life.  So she gave him an out.  “You don’t need to tell me about it.”

His taut expression softened slightly.  He sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk behind him.  His head hit with a soft thud, giving her another view of the long line of his throat as he swallowed uncomfortably.  “The docs Fury has me seeing think that I’m coping admirably, as they put it.”  She didn’t miss his bitterness.  “Coping admirably.  Like this is something you can just cope with.  Like this is something you can just get over.  I don’t know.”  That one soft, raw declaration seemed to sum up everything he was thinking and feeling.  “Would I have done it again?  I…  I’d like to think I would.  I mean… yes, I would.  I had to.  HYDRA would’ve…”  He sighed again.  “I would do anything to save people.  I’d sacrifice anything.”

There was so much more to it than that.  She’d have to be blind not to see it.  Regret.  Anger.  Grief.  Loss. _Love._ The crushing realization that he’d _had_ to do what he’d done, exactly as he’d done it.  For him there’d been no choice.  He hadn’t known his body would be discovered seventy years later.  He’d been offering up his life to save the world.  There was nobility in that, nobility she couldn’t understand and had never much respected until she’d joined SHIELD.  Seeing him like this, exposed, the mantle of Captain America all but stripped away with his shoulders bent under the weight of this new world…  “Are they all dead?” she asked.

That question took him aback, and he jerked like he’d been hit.  He looked forward, his eyes focusing on her.  “No.”

She _knew_ she shouldn’t ask, but she was curious.  “Have you looked them up?  Seen them since you–”

“No.”

An awkward moment of silence came between them.  It wasn’t like her to feel like this – to feel for someone else like this – but she did.  It hurt.  She could only imagine what it must be like for him.  His harsh shout back in Lisbon echoed across her thoughts.  She wanted to ask why he hadn’t sought out his old life, the people he’d once known, but she didn’t.  “Doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment.  It was almost as if he was answering the question she hadn’t voiced.  “Can’t go back.”

That was one hard and fast truth in this cold and cruel world.  _Can’t ever go back.  Can’t change the past._   Wiping the red from her ledger…  That was all she could do.

Again he tipped his head back and swallowed thickly.  She could see his Adam’s apple bob when he did it, a struggling thing that perhaps heralded that he was trying not to cry.  She should have been disgusted or at the very least annoyed; emotion like this had no place in their world.  But she wasn’t.  She was only sad and uncomfortable.  The apology she’d wanted to give before came out surprisingly easily now for all her brooding over it.  “I’m sorry.”

Like that could make it better for him.  It couldn’t, and she knew that.  It couldn’t even begin to.  Not for the way she’d acted in DC and Lisbon and here.  Not for everything he’d lost.  But he smiled all the same, a sad, strained thing.  Still a smile, though.  And it was for her.  “It’s alright.”

He really was a very bad liar.

He sniffed once more, wiping the back of his hand across his face.  He stood gingerly, lifting his shield with him.  “I’ll take first watch.  You should sleep.”  Again, him with his nobility.  But she didn’t complain.  She was bone-weary, feeling better but still sore and aching with exhaustion.  She found a comfortable section of grass and sand and lay down on her back so as not to aggravate her ribs any more than necessary.  She took one of the damp, mud-streaked towels and draped it over herself.  He stepped around her, heading to the other side of their little camp where he could keep a better eye on the surrounding beach and lagoon.  Nothing more than a moment of quiet passed before he was speaking again.  Softly but firmly.  “I know you think I don’t get it.  Maybe I don’t.  But I can see that the world is different.  Darker, maybe, although I didn’t think that was possible.  And SHIELD isn’t SSR.  It’s not the army.  It’s not anything I understand.”  She watched him let out a long breath, his posture stiff despite it.  “Even still… I’m pretty sure about one thing.”  He looked over his shoulder at her.  “It’s hard to trust someone when you don’t know who that someone really is.”

She didn’t know how to take that.  She licked dry lips, struggling to come up with an answer.  “The truth isn’t hard and fast.  It’s not this absolute that you think it is.  It’s a matter of circumstance.  And it’s not all things to all people all the time.  And neither am I.”

“Is that another lesson?”

“Maybe.”

He shook his head, turning back to the world around them.  “That’s not something I ever want to learn,” he muttered.  “And that sounds like a tough way to live.”

She thought about that.  Truly and deeply.  Her eyes glazed as she did, glazed with realization.  “Yeah,” she softly admitted.  “It’s a good way not to die though.”  _The only way sometimes._ He didn’t reply.  She turned her head, watching him stare out into the night.  This sudden need to make him understand and appreciate and approve left her unsettled and just a tad desperate.  “You do what you have to do.  Be what you need to be.  For the mission.  To get the job done.”

His approval wasn’t forthcoming.  “Do you ever get to be who you want to be though?”

 _Who I want to be._   That was something of a foreign concept, if she could be honest with herself.  She’d been allowing people to define her, make her and unmake her and _remake_ her, her whole life.  A tool and a weapon and an asset.  He couldn’t understand that because he was pure and noble and had never lived in darkness.  Even now he stood so tall, a stalwart sentinel, a _protector_ bathed in the faint light of the stars as the clouds slowly broke overhead.  He was so sure about himself, about who he was at his core.  And she was… _Black Widow._ She was a spy and a killer and an agent of SHIELD.  She was…  “Who do you want me to be?”

He didn’t answer at first.  Then he said, “How about a friend?”

She couldn’t tell him that that was the one thing she didn’t know how to be.


	5. Chapter 5

Something happened during the night.  At least, it seemed like that, because when Natasha awoke and they headed off together the next morning, Steve immediately noticed she seemed… _different_.  It was extremely subtle, and maybe he didn’t know her well enough to actually put any stock in what he saw, but she wasn’t as stiff around him.  Not as guarded.  Not as cold.  It was hardly anything, but the way she looked at him was less like a glare and more open.  Her words weren’t as clipped or condescending.  Her posture wasn’t as rigid and defensive.  Despite the fact that their situation was only marginally better than it had been the day before, she was more optimistic.  Calmer and more accepting.  It was as if she’d gone to sleep as the icy, unconquerable, immovable Black Widow and woken up as something not quite so forbidding.

Steve didn’t know what had affected the change, but he was incredibly glad for it.  Dealing with her when she’d been so prickly and difficult had been unpleasant enough, their current situation notwithstanding.  He could understand her reluctance to trust him.  He knew that bonds forged between teammates and partners could be deep, powerful, and difficult to break and cast aside.  If anyone had asked him to switch units or bust up the Commandos during the war, he would have been just as resistant as Natasha was.  And if someone had suggested Bucky and he be separated…  He couldn’t imagine how that would have gone, being torn from his best friend, his _brother_ , when they’d needed each other the most.  He couldn’t picture what he would have said or done.  He liked to think he would’ve taken it in stride, given his new circumstances a chance, but he couldn’t be sure.  The shock of losing Bucky when he had had been devastating enough.

And he didn’t like to judge.  Natasha was right; he didn’t know her, didn’t know the extent of the relationship she had with Barton.  It wasn’t his place to assume or guess.  It _definitely_ wasn’t his place to ask.  But if she felt something for Barton, anything at all, that certainly complicated the prospect of being assigned a new partner.  Regardless, she was more comfortable with this, with him.  And any inclination he’d had to be angry with her for the way she’d treated him was fading rapidly in the light of this new day and her new attitude.

They headed off to make another attempt at breaching the interior of the rainforest in better spirits, quiet but not tense.  Steve led the way, carrying their bag full of pilfered supplies.  They’d walked quite a few miles south along the beach yesterday evening before finding that yacht, and here the jungle wasn’t quite as thick.  That was just as well, because even though these clothes were infinitely cooler than his uniform, his shins and calves were rapidly getting torn from pushing through the brush.  That was annoying but tolerable.  And the heat was rapidly climbing and climbing anew, a damp, stifling misery the intensity of which he’d never really experienced before.  It didn’t take long for the cotton of the godawful ugly shirt he was wearing to become plastered to his skin with sweat.  Again, it was uncomfortable, but he could deal with that, too.

His biggest concern was the simple fact they still had no food, and he was getting pretty hungry.  Really hungry.  It wasn’t so bad at the moment that it was a serious issue, but he knew from experience it would very rapidly become one.  The super soldier serum had increased his metabolism four fold, and that meant he needed to eat far more than an average man.  A ridiculous amount more than an average man, in fact.  The army had been rather efficient at feeding him a lot and feeding him often, but there’d been a few times when he’d been too far from base or too involved in a mission to eat regularly.  He and the Commandos once had found out the hard way what happened when Captain America ran out of reserves, to put it mildly.  He’d almost died to make that little discovery, one autumn night not long after he’d rescued the 107th in Italy.  Their mission had taken them far into the mountains and valleys of northern Italy, and an air raid had pinned them in a gorge.  They’d run through their supplies in short order, having not anticipated this unfortunate turn of events.  He’d gone about three days without eating before succumbing to starvation.  The hunger had started out easy to ignore, not much of an impediment.  Around the end of the second day, though, it had very quickly gone from a low-level, background bother to a full-blown, crippling impediment.  He didn’t remember the end of the mission very well.  He’d been too weak to stay conscious, delirious and literally wasting away as his body turned to metabolizing his muscle mass to keep him alive.  He had vague recollections of passing out in Bucky’s arms, Bucky teary-eyed and desperately begging him to hang out, and then waking up at SSR’s base in London hooked to an IV of nutrients and a feeding tube with Bucky still right there, just as teary-eyed and angrily telling him he was a goddamned _idiot_ for letting the army inject him with a serum that killed him if he didn’t eat like a horse.

That wasn’t something he wanted to experience again, frankly, even if he’d suffered no ill effects from the ordeal.  He’d last eaten the afternoon before they’d attacked Rego’s warehouse, and in a few short hours, that was about to become two days ago.  That gnawing in his belly was steadily growing more noticeable.  He was overly sensitive to it because of the worrying knowledge of what that discomfort could mean in no time at all, so maybe that was making it harder to ignore.  But as they walked deeper into the rainforest, and as the rainforest started to thin and make way to grassier areas, he realized he had to tell Natasha.  This could be a serious problem.  He hesitated, gritting his teeth and surging onward at a faster pace while he had the energy.  It was stupid and childish, but he didn’t want her to know this was going on.  She already thought he was a liability, more of a burden than a competent partner.  Informing her that he stood a damn high chance of passing out unless they found some food in the next six hours or so would probably only reinforce her already less than stellar opinions of him.

But, on the flip side, not telling her would make him something of a hypocrite.  He’d sure as hell been frustrated and worried yesterday watching her struggle and pretend to ignore it.  As a commanding officer during the war, it had been his responsibility to know how his men were faring, if they were hurt or troubled.  Their welfare had always been among his top priorities.  This wasn’t a team situation exactly, and he wasn’t in command.  Partnership dynamics were a little bit of a foreign concept, but he was pretty sure his worries about collapsing from hunger warranted being truthful.  He’d want to know, if their roles were reversed.

Before he gathered up the courage to say anything, though, they found themselves on the edge of the rainforest.  Ahead a verdant green and yellow plain spread far and wide, flatter than seemed possible and dotted by streaks and copses of trees.  There were swampier areas, thick with reeds and animals.  Hippos, antelopes, and gazelles were gathered by a marsh, drinking in the baking sun.  Cranes stood tall and brightly white with their thin legs planted at the bottom of the watering hole.  There were more dark blobs far in the distance, the heat of the day turning the air wavy and distorting their images.  Storm clouds were building in a sky they could now see, fat thunderheads that were black and dark gray and silvery blue.  “Looks like we’re going to get wet again,” Steve commented unhappily.

“I’m more concerned about crossing this,” Natasha replied.  She had a hand up across her brow to protect her eyes as she gazed across the huge expanse of the wetlands and savanna.  “We’ll probably be out in the open for hours.  I don’t think I can run that far or that it would be smart to waste the energy trying.”

She was right.  The savanna stretched for miles ahead of them.  It was impossible to tell how many miles long it was.  He wondered (not for the first time) if maybe they’d lucked out and this island wasn’t an island at all but the mainland of Africa.  There was no way to know that, either.  Point was, though, crossing open ground like this was risky if they were being chased.  And, as she’d said, running it wasn’t an option.  He could have yesterday.  Not now.  “You want to turn back?” he asked.

She looked behind them and to their left and right, clearly considering it.  With the sun hitting her as it was, her skin was glowing ivory, and her eyes were so bright despite the shade of her hand.  They weren’t just blue.  There were hints of green in there.  He hadn’t noticed that before.  Blue and green, like the ocean under a clear, sunny sky.  He’d never seen eyes quite like that, so intense and striking and beautiful.  She caught him staring.  “What’s the matter?”

He looked away, praying to God she hadn’t noticed his blush.  “Nothing,” he quickly blurted.  “What do you think?”

She seemed concerned.  “About going back?”  He nodded.  “It would waste another day.”  It would.  By his calculation, they’d walked more than forty miles.  It had taken them all morning and into the afternoon to cross that distance, and returning to shore would completely undo that progress.  _Again_.  “And we’re not going to get off this island hiding in the rainforest.”

He sighed, turning back to the grasslands before them.  “Then we go on,” he surmised grimly.  “Get across this, hopefully before nightfall and without anyone seeing us.”  That didn’t sound pleasant.  The peaceful optimism of the morning was rapidly vanishing.  He was tired, physically and emotionally, and he knew she was, too.  “Okay?”  She turned to him, but a loud, distressed gurgle interrupted her before she could speak.  Steve flushed with embarrassment as she cocked a questioning eyebrow (and was that a touch of an amused smile?).  “Sorry.”  The hunger was rearing its ugly head, ratcheting up with the thought of going further on an empty stomach.  Said empty stomach was protesting that loudly and almost painfully.  He felt a little dizzy, the heat amplifying his misery, and he must have wavered slightly because the world dimmed and then she was right there at his side grasping his arm.

“What’s going on?” she asked, not quite filled with concern, but _concerned_ nonetheless.  She held onto his arm longer than absolutely necessary to make sure he was steady, watching him with narrowed eyes.

Steve sighed, gathering his composure.  “I suppose now’s as good a time as any,” he admitted, angry at himself and this damnable situation.  “We need to find some food.  Soon.  I was looking around in the forest back there for plants that might be edible or fruit but I didn’t see–”

“What’s wrong?”

Steve clenched his jaw slightly.  “It’s the serum.  I’m kinda running on empty.”

Natasha’s face slackened with dawning understanding as she realized the extent of how serious their situation could become (like it wasn’t already serious).  “Your metabolism,” she said, looking up at him.  There was no reproach in her eyes, nothing of the vitriol and disappointment he’d feared.  He nodded.  “How long until you’re–”

“Down?”  He squinted, looking out over the savanna again.  “I don’t know for sure.  Last time it dropped me about two days after I’d eaten last.”

Now the anger came, although it was tinged with worry.  Worry for him and worry for them both.  She was quickly thinking, probably recalling the quick meal they’d had before the assault on Rego’s warehouse and doing the math.  “You could have said something about this yesterday,” she said tersely.

He flushed.  He should have.  But now she was being the hypocrite, giving him a hard time for powering through when she’d done the same the day before.  And it didn’t matter, at any rate.  He’d hoped they have found _something_ by now, a village or a house at least or a damn fruit tree…  _Something._ “There wasn’t anything you could have done,” he responded.  “Like I said, I’ve been looking for food and there hasn’t been–”

“Don’t waste time.  Let’s go.”

They went out into the field.  The ground was still wet but firmer, springier under their shoes.  The lessened trouble of having to deal with the roots and ruts and mud was nice at least.  The lack of shade was not, however, and within minutes the heat of the afternoon sun was directly blasting them.  Steve felt perspiration burst out on his face, thick and unpleasant and soaking through his hair.  Combined with the cramping hunger and his weariness, pretty soon he was forcing himself to concentrate on the stability and pace of his steps simply to keep going.  They plodded in silence for quite a while, baking and sweating and panting.  He knew his pace had lessened considerably from that morning.  She’d been the one lagging behind him all of yesterday and most of today, and now he was the one holding up the rear.  She was trying to make a show of not looking at him, but she was, quick little glances that were equal parts concern, curiosity, and annoyance.  Eventually he got tired of it.  “I’m not gonna keel over just like that,” he declared, although his breathlessness maybe belied his assertion a little.

“Oh, the irony of the situation is not lost on me,” she replied, and he thought there was a touch of amusement in her voice again.

“How so?”

She smirked.  “That I was dragging us down yesterday and today it’s you.”

“Terribly ironic.”

“If you’re hungry enough to eat a horse, how does a gazelle sound?  Because those we have in abundance.”  As crazy as that sounded, she was right.  They were all over these grasslands, grazing in thick herds.  Steve paused a moment to catch his breath, trying not to seem as dizzy and lightheaded as he really was, and observed the closest group of animals.  They had two guns and a knife.  And his shield.  Had he been in top form, he knew he could easily outrun the gazelles.  Probably catch one.  Kill it.  If not a gazelle, then something else.  There was no shortage of wild game out here.

But the thought of doing it was decidedly unpleasant (and a tad nauseating, frankly).  He wasn’t desperate enough to _hunt_ yet.  Besides, he wanted to go a little further to make sure, but he was starting to think the faint lines he was seeing a few miles ahead were a road.  Tire tracks, at least, cutting through and flattening the tall green and gold grasses.

“Did the Nazis ever figure out they could just starve Captain America to death?”

Natasha’s question took him aback.  “What?  Oh.”  They started walking again, Steve grimacing against the roiling ache in his gut before overcoming the discomfort.  “Technically you can starve anyone to death.”

Natasha considered that a moment.  “Technically,” she conceded.  “Although not very efficiently.”

“No,” he said around a little bit of a gasp.

“No to them figuring out your Achilles’ heel or no to it being efficient?”

“It’s not an Achilles heel,” Steve forcefully declared.  “Gotta eat, same as everyone else.  I just gotta eat a lot and eat more often, that’s all.”  Natasha didn’t argue with him even if he was downplaying this a little.  She was panting herself more and more with each second, exerted and exhausted.  It probably wasn’t wise to be wasting their breath talking, not with these godawful temperatures and with the seemingly endless expanse in front of them that they needed to traverse.  But the silence was too troubling, and it felt good to talk.  It felt _good_ to talk to her.  “’Sides, I’ve been hungry before.  It’s something you can deal with.”  She shot him a questioning glance.  He quirked a weak smile.  “Grew up during the Depression.  Wasn’t a lot to go around.”

She nodded.  “You can deal with it,” she agreed, “but why suffer like that?”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  Was she saying that from experience?  It certainly seemed that way.  That made him wonder more about her past, about the things beneath the layers of Black Widow.  There hadn’t been anything in her SHIELD file about her life before the KGB, and even the details about her tenure as Russia’s deadliest assassin were thin and sparse.  “Sometimes there’s no choice,” he said.

“There’s a difference between surviving and subsisting.  That difference usually comes down to what you’re willing to do and what you won’t do.”  That was definitely spoken from experience.  There was darkness in the way she said it, a hard ache in her words that she didn’t quite cover up.  Again, he didn’t know her well enough to read it.  But there was a touch of pain there.  Regret, even.  She seemed to realize she’d inadvertently revealed something she hadn’t wanted to, because her glazed eyes focused.  A flirty exterior came up like nothing, like a breeze.  “Seeing you run down a gazelle is not something I’d envisioned on this mission, to be honest with you.”

“Me neither.  And can we talk about something else?  Kinda hard to ignore how hungry you are when all you’re doin’ is chattin’ about it.”  That caused the conversation to simply die for a while.  He regretted it a moment but not much more than that.  She was loose and pliant beside him, relaxed with her thoughts.  He hadn’t expected this, and he didn’t know if it was because she was finally comfortable enough around him not to be on her guard constantly or if it was because she was simply worn out.  Either way, it was nice to walk in an easy silence.

At least, he thought it was.  Surprisingly, she was the one who didn’t seem to like it.  “So starving is out.  I’m guessing from prior experience that freezing to death is out, too.”  She glanced at him, like she was trying to gauge if that comment bothered him.  Like she was trying to see how sensitive he was about what had happened.  Maybe their conversation last night had stoked her curiosity.  Either way, he didn’t know how to react.  “If it ever came down to it again, how would you want to meet your maker?”

“Gee, that’s frank,” he muttered.  “And morbid.”

“What?  Did you expect me to ask you what your favorite color is?”

“More than asking me how I’d prefer to die.”

“Fury told us to get to know each other,” she said around a pant.  She stopped to wipe the sweat from her face.  Her hair was tangled and mussed and she was wet with perspiration and covered in dirt again, but she was strangely stunning like this.  More vulnerable but so lean and strong at the same time.  “So we’re getting to know each other.”

He shook his head, barely sidestepping in time to avoid a massive rut in his way.  She glanced at him again in worry.  “If you ask me, ‘getting to know each other’ has been fairly one-sided.  All me giving and you taking.”

“You’re the one who wanted to work with me,” she returned, like that justified it.  “I’m not into sharing.”

“No kidding,” he huffed sarcastically.

“There are a lot of things in this business that no one talks about.  That I don’t talk about.”

He cocked an eyebrow at that.  “With me?”

“With anyone.”  She paused a moment before trudging onward.  “Besides, considering what we do and the situation we’re in, it’s a relevant question.  If you could choose any way to die, what would it be?”

He supposed that was true enough, but it still wasn’t anything he much thought about, even with what had happened to him.  And when he did consider it now, only one answer came to mind.  “I don’t care how it happens, if it’s gotta happen.”  He licked dry lips, keeping a barrage of unpleasant memories at bay.  “Just don’t want to be alone for it again.”

They were silent at that.  He found her pensive, eyes clouded with thought again like she was considering that.  Perhaps she was surprised by it.  He couldn’t tell.  The quiet grew uncomfortable.  Thunder grumbled in the distance, and a blast of heated wind raked over them, rustling the grass and wiping the perspiration from their faces.  Despite how warm it was, it actually felt fairly good.  “What about you?” he finally asked.

She pursed her lips, considering it.  “I’d rather it be quick,” she said.  She shot a smile at him.  “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he affirmed.  For talking about such a morose and serious topic, this was oddly comforting.  Like there was a kind of connection between them now, even if it was over something so dark.

She looked away, and her voice dropped to a softer tone.  “And I’d rather it be for something.”

“Someone?”

“The mission,” she corrected with a touch of warning in her voice and a shadow of a glare.  “Meaningful, not meaningless.  You know what I’m talking about.”

He did.  But the way she said it, it sounded like she couldn’t consider anything else.  Like her life wasn’t hers to give.  Like there was _no choice_ , and if it happened, she could only pray that whoever had pulled her strings and put the pieces into play had done so in a way that resulted in a worthwhile death.  Not a sacrifice, per se, but something that accomplished something.  A means to an end.  He didn’t know if it was just her or if this sort of attitude was prevalent among SHIELD agents, but once again he didn’t want to live like that.  As cogs in a machine.  Weapons, not _people_ capable of making their own choices, _good_ choices.  He wasn’t so naïve as to think that sort of emotional detachment and complacency didn’t have its uses, and sometimes ignorance was bliss.  But he’d seen what happened when men blindly followed other men who craved power and used and abused anyone to get it.  War was what happened.

The silence returned again without him realizing it.  He’d been drifting in his thoughts.  He looked over at her and found her face empty, as stoic and placid and difficult to read as ever, but her eyes seemed troubled.  And this instinctive need to fix that swelled up inside him.  “It’s red, by the way.”

“What’s red?” she asked.

“My favorite color.”

Her lips curled into a sly, teasing grin, and he felt warm at seeing it as if he’d accomplished something.  “Of course it is.  Followed by white and blue, I presume.”

He gave her a mock dry look.  “No.  And that’s not why.”

“Then why?”

He sighed.  “Before the serum, I was color blind.  So–”

“Wait.”  She stopped in her tracks, regarding him in confusion.  “I thought you were an artist or something like that.”

He blanched awkwardly.  This wasn’t the first time this had happened since he’d woken up in the future, that he’d encountered his so-called “legacy”.  His artwork had been a passion, yes, and a means of employment, but he’d hardly been _famous_.  Yet random people, strangers, knew this fact about him.  It was disconcerting.  “Well, I wasn’t that good.  I mean, I did some things for local newspapers and what have you.  Went to school a little.  They were just drawings.  Charcoals and pencils.”  What were they talking about again?  “No color.  So being color blind didn’t really matter so much.”  She stared at him like she couldn’t make sense of that.  “Anyway, point being that the serum fixed that.  And everything else wrong with me.  So, yeah, when you asked earlier?  Project: Rebirth hurt.  But it was also the most amazing experience I’ve ever had.  I can’t even explain it.  I walked out of that chamber, and maybe I should have been wrapped up in being so much taller and feeling so much stronger and feeling like I could breathe right for the first time in my life, but…”  He remembered it so clearly.  How it felt.  The world, bright and brand new.  “But the thing that really struck me was how _colorful_ everything was.”

She was quiet as she digested that, really and truly.  “Why red?”

 _Why red?_ The answer wouldn’t come out.  _Peggy.  Peggy’s red lips.  Peggy’s smile._   “Just…”  He swallowed the lump constricting his throat, forcing a nonchalant tone.  “The first thing I saw was red.  That’s all.”

The memory was slow to release him.  They always were.  This was how it was when he let things from the past come into the present.  It was so powerful, overwhelming, hard to let it go.  And he always felt so cold when it came on.  That somatosensory nonsense, he supposed.  But he couldn’t stop a shiver from wracking over his frame.  He covered it up with a question and prayed she didn’t notice.  “So what’s yours?”

She’d noticed.  But she didn’t press him, a fact for which he was thankful.  Her voice was soft, coy.  “I don’t have one.”

“Yes, you do.  Everyone has a favorite color.”

That smile again.  He was starting to realize it did things to him.  “I’m not everyone.”

_No, you’re most certainly not._

The conversation quietly faded once more.  Maybe a half an hour later, they reached those previously distant and indistinct lines.  And, sure enough, they were exactly what he’d thought they were.  Natasha had obviously shared his conclusion, even if they hadn’t mentioned it to each other.  She crouched beside one, inspecting the bent grass.  They looked recent, considering how quickly the weather changed around here.  “Follow them?” she asked softly.

Steve swallowed through a painfully dry throat.  He reached into the bag and grabbed another bottle of water, taking a few measured, careful sips.  It wouldn’t do them any good to blow through their supply.  He looked down the tracks.  They, too, went for miles northeast.  And walking along what possibly passed for a road around here was a sure-fire way to get captured, if the pirates were truly hunting for them.  But this was the first sign of civilization – _recent_ civilization – and they couldn’t pass that up.  The smallest bit of hope simmered within him, hope that they could find help and food and a chance to call SHIELD.  “Yeah.”

Their pace quickened with that small speck of hope.  Ahead the thunderheads built ominously.  The thought of being caught out in another storm was fantastically unappealing.  There wasn’t much cover out here; an occasional copse of trees dotted the savanna, but other than that, there was no protection against another sundering deluge like yesterday.  So they walked even faster, as pointless as that might be.  Then Steve stopped.  Natasha halted with him, drawing closer.  “Do you hear something?” she asked worriedly.

“Yeah,” he answered.  That distant, mechanical hum was familiar enough.  “There’s a car coming.”

All hints of fatigue and weakness were dashed by a pressing need to get off the road.  They sprinted to the left, finding a lone, gnarled tree and ducking by its trunk.  The grasses were tall enough to hide them, at least they hoped so, but they both pressed themselves flat to the ground regardless.  Steve turned his shield face down so that the bright polish of it and the iconic star were dug into the dirt, just in case the sun should catch off of it.  They waited.  Neither of them so much as moved, the tall reeds of grass waving in the wind around them.  And, a few minutes later, a jeep appeared on the horizon.

It seemed to take a long time for it to come closer, sliding through the waves of heat across the grasslands almost lethargically even though Steve could tell it was driving over fifty miles an hour.  Those marked tracks were fairly devoid of bumps and ruts, but every once in a while the vehicle jolted over uneven terrain.  Despite his enhanced vision and the car’s open top, he couldn’t make out who was driving.  Was it worth the risk of revealing themselves?  They had no idea who these people were, but perhaps they would help out of the kindness of their hearts.  He sidled nearer to Natasha on his belly.  “You want to–”

Obviously she did.  She was checking her guns, ensuring they were loaded, before rising from the grass and heading back towards the tracks.  Both her weapons were tucked into the back of her capris beneath her tank top.  Steve watched as she ran, debating on following before deciding against it, at least for now.  If these people turned out not to be friendly, at least they still had a little element of surprise.

Natasha raised her hands, standing beside the road and waving.  The jeep slowed drastically, kicking up dirt behind it.  It was nearly stopped.  “Excuse me!” she called, obviously donning the innocent act of a lost tourist or some such.  “Can you help me?  I’m–”

The man driving the jeep swerved toward her without warning.  Bullets peppered the ground around Natasha’s feet as the man in the passenger seat opened fire.  They slammed uselessly into the earth where she had been standing.  She was running, drawing one of her guns from her pants and jumping forward.  She shot the driver first, deadly accurate, and he slumped against the wheel.  His foot slid off the brake and the jeep resumed moving forward.  But she was already moving with it, somersaulting right into its back seat and kicking the rifle from the hands of the passenger.  In a blink, he was dead, and she was yanking on the parking brake to bring the car to a stop.

The whole thing was over and done with before Steve had really even registered it was happening.  He picked himself up out of the grass, wincing on behalf of the dead thugs.  “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he commented.

Natasha pushed hair from her sweaty face, standing in the back of the car triumphantly.  “Who said you were on my good side?”

He knew her well enough now to think she was kidding (at least, he hoped he did).  “Funny.”  He came over with his shield and their supplies.  Opening the door, he snatched the driver by the front of his shirt and pulled him out.  He glanced at the man’s scarred face and the very distinctive lightning-shaped tattoo on the side of his neck.  “This is one of Rego’s guys.  I recognize him from Fury’s briefing.”

Natasha didn’t look happy about that.  She was already dragging the other pirate from the car and unceremoniously dumping him into the grass.  She knelt to dig through his pockets.  Switchblade.  Another hand gun.  Cigarettes.  Something that looked suspiciously like a bag of drugs.  “Here.”  She tossed Steve a candy bar.  “Bon appetit.”

He grimaced but it was better than nothing.  He finished searching the driver to find much the same collection of stuff.  He dumped the white powder of the drugs all over the ground and took the gun.  “At least we have weapons now,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat.  “And a car.”

There was a bag in the back, and she was looking in it.  Dirty clothes.  Quite a few additional handguns.  And a couple more candy bars.  “Lucky for you this guy had a sweet tooth.”  She handed them to him. 

He took them, opened the wrapper of one, and devoured it.  The chocolate and caramel were overly gooey thanks to the heat, and these empty calories would probably only take the edge off his hunger if that.  Still, he supposed it was preferable to raw gazelle.  He was well into his second before he realized Natasha was staring at him.  He chewed and swallowed and then asked, “What?”

“Just Captain America stuffing his face with candy,” she commented dryly.  “And your slightly chauvinistic assumption that you should drive.”

He bit his tongue to restrain himself.  “Would you like to?” he asked, overly dramatic and gesturing at the steering wheel.

“Do you know how?” she questioned gently.

He couldn’t tell if she was yanking his chain.  “Are you serious?”  She smiled, and this time that smile made him grit his teeth in utter annoyance.  “A lot of things have changed since 1945, but driving’s not one of them.”  He released the parking brake, shifted the car into gear, and expertly spun them around before speeding off.

* * *

They didn’t have to go far to find something.  Fifteen minutes later, they spotted a building nestled in a copse of trees.  The sky had grown consistently cloudier as the storm approached, which spared them the burning heat of the sun, but a few fat drops of rain were splattering on the jeep’s windshield.  In a few minutes, another massive downpour would certainly be upon them.  That made them more willing to investigate the small place than they probably should have been.  There was no way to hide their approach, not with the open savanna spreading around them as far as the eye could see, but neither Steve nor Natasha spotted any obvious signs of people.  So they chanced driving right up to the back of it and checking it out.

Steve ignored the persistent ache in his gut as he slowed the car to a stop and shut it off.  He climbed out, grabbing a couple of the handguns.  One he stuffed into his shorts.  The other he carried in his left hand, his right tightly grasping the straps of his shield.   He also slung their replenished bag of supplies over his shoulder.  A quick brush of his hand to his right thigh found the Eye of Ra still safely tucked into his pocket.  Ready, he looked to Natasha and found her nodding in response.

Thunder grumbled warningly as they headed through the grass toward the building.  It was in serious disrepair; the gray exterior was blackened with mold and other stains.  The windows were smashed in some locations, and the roof looked to be significantly sagging.  It looked a bit like a research outpost; there were faded signs around it in English for some sort of zoological survey team.  Lawn chairs that were broken and covered in rot surrounded the building, as well as what appeared to be empty animal hutches.  A large, old gas generator draped in rust was against one side of the building.  Clearly it hadn’t been active in years.  Whoever had used this place seemed long gone.

Silently they approached.  There wasn’t a door on the front anymore.  They flanked the dark opening, backs to the building, listening.  When it was silent aside from the soft patter of rain and the aching groan of thunder, Natasha went in first, gun up.  Steve followed.  Inside was about as sadly dilapidated as outside.  Everything was colored in various shades of gray, brown, and black.  The remains of furniture, supplies, and research materials littered the floors.  They were careful as they advanced, but a quick sweep of the small building revealed they were alone.

And that this was clearly some sort of storehouse for Rego.

The back room was positively loaded with crates.  Guns.  Drugs.  Jewelry.  Alcohol and stolen goods.  Food, at least.  Natasha looked around, appraising the pirate’s loot with a slightly astonished look on her face.  Slightly.  “Pay dirt?”

“You said these islands were a hub for pirating and narcotics trafficking.  You were right,” he said.

She winced.  “Not sure if I should be proud of myself or pissed off,” she commented.

“Both?” he offered.  Steve found an abundance of what he assumed was cocaine in a few large crates in front of him.  Millions of dollars worth, in all likelihood.  Disgusted, he pawned through the next box.  Fruit.  And dried meat of some sort.  _Thank God._   Still, some caution would be prudent.  This was clearly a lair of their enemies.  “Think it’s safe?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” Natasha said with a tip of her head.  “I’ll keep watch.”

Relieved, he started eating.  The food tasted fairly exotic, but he was famished enough not to care.  He made himself slow down; the last couple of times something similar to this had happened to him and he’d inhaled a quick meal, he’d regretted it later.  “Would you toss me a banana?” Natasha asked.  She’d moved closer to the window to keep a better eye on their surroundings.  He threw her an entire bunch of them.  She’d been hiding it and still was with her sedate peeling of the fruit, but she was ridiculously hungry as well.  She had consumed two of them and almost a whole bottle of water when Steve looked back a couple of minutes later.

They kept eating.  Rested.  Minutes dragged by.  Natasha watched the rain, coming over briefly to get some of the jerky and raid another box that apparently contained chocolate.  Expensive chocolate.  “Much better than that crap in the car,” she said, taking an appreciative bite of the softened bar she’d unwrapped.  She gave one to him on her way back to the window.  “Might as well enjoy it.”

Steve unwrapped the candy.  The foil around it was gold, not real gold of course but it sure looked like it.  This he ate more slowly.  He’d never had a big sweet tooth.  Growing up they’d hardly had money for the necessities, so things like treats were just that: treats, not staples.  Even still, he found himself savoring it because it was undoubtedly the best chocolate he’d ever had, the unbelievable fact he was having it with Black Widow inside a pirate’s lair on an isolated tropical island notwithstanding.  This was actually kind of nice.

Watching her enjoy it in the way she was, subdued and controlled like she didn’t want to admit to him let alone herself that it was _good_ …  Eyelids fluttering shut just a little, tongue darting out to lick wayward chocolate from her lower lip…  That was just about as nice.

But the crackle of what was very clearly a radio made them both stop completely.  Steve’s heart leapt.  He looked up and stood, setting his chocolate to the crate.  She had already located the source of the noise.  Behind a wall of crates there was an old, disgusting desk littered with guns and discarded loot and empty bottles of booze.  A military-grade walkie talkie was there, buzzing with static.  _“Parente, você está ouvindo?”_ They knew that voice.  _Rego._   His words were slurred and he was yelling quickly. _“O comprador está aqui e não temos nada pra vender pra ele. Seu beberrão idiota! Eu mesmo vou arrancar sua tripas se você não estiver lá!”_

“You understand that?” Steve asked.

Natasha shook her head.  “Other than the fact they’re coming?”  She snatched up the walkie talkie buzzing loudly on the desk and dashed to the crates with the weapons, digging through them quickly to locate a shotgun and an automatic rifle.  She tossed those to Steve, who caught them and slung them over his shoulder by their straps.  She rushed over with a handful of grenades, and those and the walkie talkie she jammed into their supply bag that Steve had on his other shoulder.  Food followed.  As much as the bag could hold.  “I’d make some comment about how gentlemanly it is of you to carry all my stuff, but–”

“Make it later,” he commanded, and then they were running.  They burst outside into the light rain, sprinting to the jeep.  Both of them vaulted in, Steve shoving the bags in the back.  “This time you can drive.”

“How kind,” she muttered, turning the key in the ignition and firing the engine up.  The car was hardly running before she threw it into drive and slammed on the gas.  Steve steadied himself, grabbing one of the rifles.  She tore out into the flatlands again, staying away from the road, which took them onto less defined terrain and thus slowed them.  But avoiding the road didn’t matter, at any rate.

Two – no, _four_ jeeps and trucks were headed straight at them.

Natasha gave a low curse in Russian, driving as fast as they could while staying fairly safely on the ground.  Steve could hear men shouting, guns being readied.  Natasha yanked the wheel to the left, and Steve got his shield up just in time to block the barrage on gunfire screaming at them.  The bullets slammed into the side of the car and his shield.  “Go, go, go!” he cried to her, and she did, barreling past the enemies coming at them.  Tires shrieked as they narrowly escaped a collision.  Steve angled himself around, taking the rifle and shooting at their pursuers.  He got a better look now, despite the jeep jumping and bouncing all over.  There were more than a dozen of them.  _Damn it._   And one of them had an RPG launcher.  “Left!”

Natasha swerved left a split second later, and the missile that would have hit them slammed into the soil beside them instead.  The impact jostled them roughly, destroying Steve’s aim, and his next shots flew wide.  The jeeps and trucks kept chase, coming after them furiously.  Natasha glanced over her shoulder, shaking her head.  With the wide expanse of the savanna around them, there was no way they could outrun them and get away.  And there was no place to hide.

They had to get back to the rainforest.

She came to the same realization, altering their direction to head toward a distant line of trees.  A particularly deep rut in the ground sent the jeep nearly flying anew, and Steve floundered to hang onto his gun.  He ducked as a round of bullets slammed into the back of the jeep.  _This isn’t good._   He rose and returned fire.  He knew he had a steady hand, but damn if it wasn’t impossible to aim with the car bouncing as wildly as it was.  “Can you keep it steady?” he demanded of Natasha.

“Not exactly a top priority right now!” Natasha yelled back, swerving to avoid a swampier area.  Steve lurched, slamming onto the seats, and his next shots went uselessly into the sky.  One of the trucks was gaining on them.  Another RPG was careening at them.  Natasha turned again, but it still almost struck them.  Steve grimaced, tucking himself behind his shield as the explosion nearly lifted the rear of car into the air.  He tossed the useless rifle.  Even if he could have maintained a steady aim, there was no way he was taking out four vehicles like this.  He reached into their bag and took one of the grenades.  The ground in front of them exploded.  “Hang on!”  Steve was almost tossed from the jeep as Natasha tried to avoid the massive hole that was now in their path.  The jeep teetered precariously for what felt like forever as they took the turn sharply.  He tightened his grip on the grenade and on the frame of the jeep, his quick eyes analyzing the trajectory of both their vehicle and the ones coming at them.  He pulled the pin with his teeth and tossed it.

It landed on the hood of the closest jeep before rolling down and luckily landing in the front rock guard.  Snugly trapped in there, there was nothing the driver or pirates with him could do as the grenade detonated.  The car went up in a ball of flames, its momentum flipping the wreck.  “One down!” Natasha called once she’d regained control of their car.

Steve grabbed another grenade and yanked its pin.  His next throw wasn’t so fortunate, and the grenade bounced uselessly off the hood of the truck to their left before exploding on the ground.  His attack was rewarded with another spray of gunfire.  The jeep jittered with the impact of the shots.  The stink of gas flooded Steve’s nose.  “We’re hit!  We’re losing fuel!”

“Noticed.”  Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror at the other three pursuers and grimaced.  Pirates stood in the flatbed of the trucks, rifles spitting bullets.  The windshield of their car shattered, and Steve dropped back into the passenger seat to protect Natasha with his shield from the wicked spray of the glass.  She shifted, fishtailing as she struggled to shake the other cars.  The edge of the forest was closer but not close enough, and their pursuers were gaining on them.  “We’re never gonna make it…” she said breathlessly.

She was right.  Not like this.  “Slow down!” Steve cried, palming the last two grenades from the bag.

Natasha turned to glare at him.  “What?”

“Do it!”  She did as he ordered without further question, and the jeep’s abrupt decrease in speed sent the other cars flying past them.  The truck behind them rammed their rear, nearly pitching them forward and out of control.  Steve rose to his feet nimbly and leapt as Natasha pressed back on the gas to free them.  For a second he soared through the air before he landed roughly on the hood of the truck.  He scrambled for purchase, digging his shoes into the smooth, rain-slicked metal.  Then he was standing, vaulting up the windshield and passing over the wide-eyed, slack-jawed faces of the pirates inside.  He launched himself into the flatbed where more men with guns were waiting.  It was a quick fight, the element of surprise even more of an advantage than his speed and strength.  He kicked the rocket launcher straight out of one shocked pirate’s hands.  Apparently he was in the process of firing it when he dropped it, and the missile exploded right against the side of the truck.  Steve was already moving away, though, yanking the pin from one of his grenades and stuffing it into another guy’s baldric.  The man tried to shoot at him but missed, and Steve grabbed him and physically threw him dozens of yards across the way toward the other truck.  The pirate hit the men there who were shooting at Steve, and the grenade went off with a bang.

Steve jumped back onto the roof of the cab.  The loud _blam blam_ of a shotgun resounded.  The roof exploded under his feet as the man in the passenger seat shot at him.  He avoided the holes (and the shells) and pulled the pin from the last grenade.  Hardly slowing, he dropped it into the cab through one of the new holes right into the lap of the man with the shotgun.  Two huge strides had him back on the hood, and he jumped.

The truck exploded behind him, the force helping to propel him forward.  He slammed into the back of the jeep, latching onto the trunk door and holding tight.  It gave way from the abuse and the damaged it had taken, and Steve yelped and tried to scramble forward into the backseat.  Natasha threw a hand back, snatching his wrist, and holding tight.  “I’ve got you!”

Finally his feet found stability on the loose back bumper, and he was able to drag himself back inside.  “Floor it!”

She did.  The jeep lurched forward, surging with all the strength it had left.  Through the smoke and rain behind them, the last car chasing them emerged, another jeep that was unscathed.  Steve caught a glimpse of the man in the passenger seat.  _Rego._   “Can we make it?” he gasped, turning back to Natasha.  The line of trees was still nearly a mile away, and he could feel the damaged car shuddering around him.

She clenched her jaw.  “Yes.”

Steve climbed into the passenger seat, grabbing his shield where it was on the floor by the door and protecting the backs of their heads with it.  Rego’s jeep was gaining on them steadily.  Natasha continued to swerve wildly, avoiding uneven terrain as much as she was the gunfire flying at them with abandon.  A bullet clipped her shoulder, and she gave a soft cry.  Steve moved closer to her and shoved his shield more in front of her back.  The next wave of gunfire was low and pretty damaging.  One of the rear tires simply blew.  Natasha swore, trying to maintain stability but losing the battle.  The uneven ground suddenly became nearly impossible to traverse.  But they were almost there.

Almost.

 _We’re not going to make it!_   They were out of grenades, and their tiny arsenal of handguns and one shotgun wasn’t going to do much good.  But he reached for the shotgun all the same, stood as best he could, and pulled the trigger.  Whatever forces that were were looking out for them, it seemed, because that shot hit the other jeep’s front tire, blowing it to shreds.  And it hit a bump in the field and rolled.

Steve watched the destruction.  Natasha glanced once over her shoulder.  “Don’t stop!” he shouted, and she didn’t.  She kept her foot down on the accelerator, sending them screaming further ahead.  There was no way they could drive into the rainforest, not with the trees as thick as they were.  And it didn’t matter at any rate.  Another tire blew out, and they spun.  Hard.  Steve held on to the seats as hard as he could, ripping the upholstery in his fist but keeping his shield against Natasha to protect her as she fought for control.  The world tilted and he held his breath and prayed the car didn’t flip.

It didn’t.  But it slammed into the edge of the trees with violent force right on the passenger side, the door crumpling inward against a massive trunk.  Steve couldn’t keep a pained cry contained as his right leg was crushed.  Everything finally stopped.

Natasha was breathing heavily, trembling slightly as she looked around with wide, unbelieving eyes.  Steve groaned, dropping his head back on the seat.  “We made it?” he said with a gasp.  He didn’t know if that was a question or what.

There was no time to rest.  “Go,” she returned, snatching the bag from the back seat before jumping out.  Steve grimaced, trying to pull his leg free but failing.  The pain was a pretty serious impediment from trying again.  But the panic was just as much of a motivation.  He lowered his torso to ram his shoulder and arm into the mangled remains of the door.  It burst loose, gouging the trunk from the force.  That didn’t give him much more room, but it was enough to yank himself out.  His leg was bruised and bleeding but thankfully not broken.  Still, pain shot from his hip down to his knee, pain that he ignored as he grabbed his shield and struggled out of the jeep.

A moment later they were running again.  Running through the damn rainforest.  Any hope that they’d escaped died pretty quickly.  He could hear people coming, gruff, angry voices and loud orders and the sound of more engines.  They sprinted down a gentle hill towards another little river, quickly putting distance between them and their pursuers.  Natasha found a wide trunk and threw herself behind it, pulling Steve with her.  They hid there, trying to catch their breaths.  Waiting.  Listening.  Static suddenly crackled.  _The walkie talkie._ She reached into the bag to find and turn it off because the tirade of frustrated shouting in Portuguese was a dead giveaway as to where they were.  And her eyes fell to Steve’s hip.  “Rogers,” she whispered.  “Your shorts.”

Steve moved his shield to look down.  “Goddamn it,” he whispered, his stomach plummeting.  His right thigh and hip were pretty torn up, creating a bloody mess along the length of his shorts, but that wasn’t what was upsetting.  The side of the khaki fabric had been completely ripped away, taking the pocket with it.

Taking the 084 with it.

He slapped his hand down to his other hip, but of course it wasn’t there.  The pouch had been in his _right_ pocket.  “Damn it,” he moaned in realization.  It had to be back with the jeep, probably by the passenger door.  “Damn damn damn it – _Romanoff!”_

His harsh whisper went unheeded.  She was already dropping their supplies and sprinting back up the hill toward their wrecked jeep.  Steve gritted his teeth and followed.  Rego and his men were coming, and they were coming fast.  _“Encontrá-los! Mate-os!”_

She was at the car, jumping back into the passenger side, looking frantically.  “I see her!” someone shouted.  Steve could have kicked himself for being so damn _stupid_.  He watched helplessly as Natasha scoured the car.  Then he spotted it in the grass.

“Romanoff!” he shouted.  At this point there was no sense in hiding.  “Under!”  He heard guns firing and saw the wreck of the jeep shudder as bullets slammed into it.  Natasha ducked.  Steve ran up to her, flinging his shield as he did.  It struck the first man approaching the car.  That made their attackers pause long enough that she was able to slip back out of the jeep.  She fumbled along the ground, calm despite the clanging of the bullets ripping the car apart behind her.  Steve’s shield came back to his arm, bouncing off the back of the jeep.  “Come on!”

She found the pouch and rolled away, lithely climbing to her feet and running back toward him.  She didn’t make it, though.  They were coming now, coming over the wrecked jeep and down the hill like spiders.  One launched himself at her, and she went down under his weight.  Horrified, Steve rushed toward her, but it was too late.  Suddenly they were outnumbered six to one and engaged in an all-out brawl.

Natasha was back on her feet, the pouch clenched in her hand as she engaged the guy who had jumped her.  She fought with that same incredible power that she had in New York, a graceful dance that brought death quickly to her opponents.  Steve was pushed back down the hill by a round of gunfire from the thugs at the top.  He took cover behind the tree again, wood splintering into the air as bullets ripped into it.  He whipped around the other side and threw his shield with all of his strength.  It hit the first guy at the top of the hill before careening into the next and lastly the third, dropping them all in a line.  Natasha was dodging gunfire, rolling into a handstand and before springing into another of the men surrounding her.  She got him between her thighs and flipped him forward with power that belied her size.  But they were on her, and they were on her in force.  She got kicked to the side, and her shoes skidded in the mud.  She tumbled to the forest floor, and the Eye of Ra rolled right out of the pouch.

Natasha scrambled for the orange gem as it disappeared in the grass.  Steve’s heart thundered in fear, for both her and the lost orb, but when she emerged from the grass with it in her hand, he focused on his own situation.  He shoved the man in front of him into the tree trunk with enough force to break the guy’s bones.  Another came at him, but Steve kicked the rifle out of his hands and punched him back up the hill to ram into the car.  They needed to run, to get away.  There were more men coming.  More pirates.  A seemingly endless charge of them.  More gunfire.  They were going to get shot like this.  Killed.  They were two against an army.  A guy came at him with a knife, sloppy and more brute strength than technique.  He caught the stabbing motion against his shield and shoved back, but the thug was more persistent than his peers and came right at him again.  Steve leaned back to avoid a swipe of the blade and retreated, trying to get a look at Natasha through the fray.  She was still surrounded.  They _knew_ she had it.  They knew–

Someone tackled her.  She went down, her arms pinned to her sides.  And the Eye went flying.  It was sailing through the rain, sailing right above their heads, and heading for the river.

Steve didn’t think.  He just jumped as high as he could, going completely vertical, and snatched the gem from the air.  The satisfying weight of it in his left hand, firm and smooth and _thank God_ , was way more of a relief than it should have been.  But that didn’t last.  He felt fiery agony spread along his exposed flank, relentless and harsh and _he stabbed me_.  The knife came free of his body hot and wet as he fell.  He landed roughly on his feet, that agony turning white hot and running up and down his side and wrapping around his chest.  It dropped him to his knees, blinding and deafening and numbing him for a second, but he got his shield up to block the next attacks.  He still wasn’t thinking.  He just pushed himself to his feet, smashing and punching and kicking, and the group of assailants soon lay moaning or unconscious in the grass.

“Drop the shield!” snarled a voice.  Steve whirled and saw Rego and another of his thugs there.  The big brute had Natasha by the hair, his fist tight in the auburn locks.  His other hand held a wicked looking knife to the pale column of her throat.  Both of Natasha’s hands were up, and she was shaking, wincing in pain.  Rego stood beside his hostage, his face tight with frustration.  “Captain America, yes?”  Steve narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth.  Rego smiled thinly, opening his hands in a false show of invitation.  “Welcome to the future.  I assume you’re here because you work for SHIELD.  And you work with Black Widow.”  The pirate’s glare turned cutting.  “A match made in heaven, eh?  She is a beauty.”  Natasha jerked in disgust.  “But you know what she is, don’t you?  Did they at least tell you that?  Did they at least tell you what you’re getting into?”

“Let her go,” Steve returned coolly.

“Give me the Eye or her pretty throat gets cut,” Rego ordered, his eyes dark in a vicious glare.  Steve glanced among Natasha, Rego, and the blade poised to kill.  Rego lost what little remained of his patience.  He drew a handgun and pointed it at Steve.  “Give it to me!”

Before Steve could even consider submitting to their demands, Natasha was taking matters into her own hands.  She pushed back against the man holding her for leverage and flipped herself up and over his shoulder.  Her hand found his wrist, and she broke it.  He howled.  She kicked him in between his legs from behind.  He howled again.  In a move too fast and fluid for Steve to trace, she somehow caught the knife as it was falling from the pirate’s shaking hand and drove it into his back.  He slumped to the ground.

Rego whirled to shoot her, but he was too slow.  The graceful arc of Natasha’s leg smacked into his hand, knocking the gun away.  Two more quick strikes to his knee and then his solar plexus sent him spinning and falling.  He hit the ground unconscious.

The soft patter of the rain and the rumble of thunder were the only sounds for a moment.  That and their rushed breaths and thundering hearts.  Steve watched Natasha in awe.  Absolute and consuming _awe_.  And fear.  And shock.  This was well beyond killing in defense or in the line of duty.  The way she moved, fought, _lived…_   She was stunningly beautiful and stunningly deadly.  He wanted to ask her if she was alright, but he didn’t.  He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t.  _You know what she is._ She picked up Rego’s discarded gun and aimed it at his prone form for a moment.  _Spy.  Assassin._  

_Black Widow._

Steve thought for sure she was going to kill the pirate, murder him even though he was knocked out and completely helpless, and he stepped forward, a protestation on his lips.  But she didn’t pull the trigger.  She turned to face him, angry and frustrated for reasons he couldn’t understand before the stoic mask came back and he couldn’t read her.  Her face glistened with rain.  “Do you have it?”

He looked down at his hand.  The gem was still clenched in his fist, momentarily forgotten.  “Yeah,” he responded breathlessly.

She nodded, swallowed, and the fierce expression faded from her face.  “How bad?” she asked in a softer tone, looking at his side.

He looked, too.  Damn it, he was bleeding a lot.  Seriously bleeding a lot.  The wound was deep, and it was throbbing.  It needed tending, but hopefully it could wait.  “I can still fight.  And run.”

She was wounded herself, limping and worn and maybe even a bit shaken.  But that didn’t stop her.  _Nothing_ stopped her.  “Good,” she said, coming to his side, “because we’re running.  Now.”

They did, tearing through the trees, stopping momentarily to reclaim their supplies before putting as much distance between themselves and the pirates as possible.  Steve tried not to feel the fatigue or the pain or the hot blood leaking down his side or the doubts returning to his heart.  She was Black Widow, and he was Captain America.  He was a soldier, and she was a spy.  Getting to know each other…

_“It’s hard to trust someone when you don’t know who that someone really is.”_

That tentative connection between them…

_“Who do you want me to be?”_

Could he ever truly know what she was?

_What in the world did I get myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Parente, você está ouvindo?_ – Parente, are you listening?  
>  _O comprador está aqui e não temos nada pra vender pra ele. Seu beberrão idiota! Eu mesmo vou arrancar sua tripas se você não estiver lá!_ – The buyer is here and we have nothing to sell him. You drunk bastard! I'll gut you myself if you're not there!  
>  _Encontrá-los! Mate-os!_ – Find them! Kill them!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Warnings on this chapter for pirates being pirates. I'm going to hit every pirate trope possible :-P. Thanks for reading!

They ran for what seemed like forever.  As they did, it started to rain again.  This wasn’t as violent a downpour as they’d face the day before, but the forest wasn’t as thick here so that meant they were still soaked immediately.  It certainly didn’t help in maintaining a good pace or constant direction, but putting ground (any ground) between them and the pirates was the ultimate goal, and Steve was pretty sure they’d accomplished that at least.  Miles, by his estimate.  Thankfully this stretch of woods amidst the open ground of the savanna was sizeable, so they had some cover.  That (and the damn blinding pain in his side that he just couldn’t ignore anymore) was enough to convince him to stop.  “Romanoff,” he gasped, drawing to an exhausted halt next to a massive tree trunk.  She kept going, but it was simply possible she hadn’t heard him over the rumbling thunder and the cacophony of rain.  And because his voice was downright pathetic, strained with hurt and winded.  “Romanoff!”

Ahead she turned around, panting slightly herself with exertion.  Her hair had turned dark with rainwater again, and her clothes were positively clinging to her body.  Despite how much pain he was in, he caught himself staring and made himself look back at her face.  She hadn’t seemed to notice.  “You need to stop?” she called over the rain.  He couldn’t read her voice.  Was she annoyed or upset or angry at him?  Worried about him?  He didn’t have a clue, but he knew for certain that he was still bleeding like a stuck pig.  He also knew he could keep going like this, could fight with worse and run much farther, but if they had a chance to deal with his injury now, they should take it.  It wasn’t as if a spot another half a mile or mile ahead would be more preferable than here.  So he nodded.

Wordlessly, she seemed to agree.  He got a better look at her now and noticed bruises he hadn’t seen before.  The place on her shoulder where she’d been clipped by a stray bullet was oozing red.  There were other scrapes and cuts.  And now that they’d stopped running, there was a limp in her step and an exhausted slump to her shoulders.  She looked around, rain running down her face and dripping from her chin as she searched for a place to hide.  “Come on,” she eventually ordered.

Even these few seconds of being still had turned his muscles rigid with fatigue.  Normally that would not have been the case, but after the hell of the last two days, coming uncomfortably close to starving, and with a massive hole in his side, he was getting dangerously close to simply collapsing.  She’d probably hate him for that and leave him where he lay because how the hell was she going to carry him?  She was strong, but she wasn’t that strong.  So with a grunt of misery, he followed her.  She directed them to a huge fallen tree trunk.  It was covered in thick moss and lush undergrowth, and the other side of it was crowded with vines, trees, and bushes.  The vegetation wasn’t dense enough to keep the ground dry, but it provided some protection from the deluge at least.  More importantly, it was hidden, a little nook in a forest full of nooks, and hopefully anyone pursuing them would have to look twice and would make a lot of noise doing it.

Once they were behind the trunk and tucked in the driest spot they could find under the canopies of a few shorter trees, she dropped their bag.  Steve leaned tiredly against the tree trunk behind them.  “Let me see,” she ordered, her voice surprisingly soft.  Professional, but not cold.  She came closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of green in her eyes, and waited for him to pull away the hand he’d subconsciously pressed to the injury.  He hesitated.  He’d been hurt before, shot and stabbed and worse, and he’d let other members of his team tend to his injuries.  It had been common practice during the war, treating what could be treated themselves to save the medics and the supplies for the most seriously wounded soldiers.  And Bucky had spent their entire childhoods patching him up, wrapping bruised ribs and icing bloody noses and chastising him all the while for being such a stupid punk.  But he’d never had a woman do it, at least not like this out in the field, not _alone_ , and the wound was down close to his hip.  Really close.

He was woozy enough from blood loss and the idea of her touching him around _there_ that he didn’t move.  She sighed in irritation.  “Rogers, let me see.”

“Uh…”

“What?” she snapped, practically swatting his hand away.  And when that didn’t work, she grabbed his wrist and pulled.  He was tired and irritated himself enough to try and pull back.  “You think a woman can’t handle this?  I’ve seen plenty of stab wounds before.  Done my fair share of field dressings.  Sewn myself up even, so man up.”

“That’s kinda what I’m afraid of,” he muttered before he thought better of it.  She actually grinned at that before finally wresting his hand away and unceremoniously yanking his shorts down.  “Ahh!  What are you doing?”

She didn’t respond to that.  Her touch was downright _clinical_ , but it still sent his blood south in a hurry (and right out of his body, probably) as she got down on her knees and examined the wound.  “This is deep,” she announced grimly.  “Looks bad.”

That was enough to snap him out of his haze.  “S’alright,” he slurred.  His shield dropped to the ground with a dull rattle.

“Sit down before you pass out.”  She tugged his wrist and helped him down onto the forest floor.  It was mossy here, springy, solid, and surprisingly free from mud.  “Here.  Lay on your other side.”  He did, letting her guide him down.  She dug in their supply bag, which was soaked through, of course.  Out came the first aid kit.  She also grabbed a couple of bottles of water and some dried meat.  “You lost a lot of blood.  Drink.  And eat.”

He grunted at her apt assessment, propping himself on his elbow and unscrewing the cap of the bottle before downing the whole thing in a couple of monstrous gulps.  She was pulling his bloody, sodden shorts further off his waist and pushing the atrocious shirt aside, exposing the wound.  This was the first time he’d gotten a good look at it.  It about three inches long and as deep as she’d said, as he’d feared.  He couldn’t quite recall how big the blade had been that had stabbed him, but it had obviously been big.  And sharp.  And serrated.  He sagged down to the ground.

She didn’t seem pleased.  He drew a harsh breath through his teeth as she experimentally touched the ragged edges of skin.  It was still bleeding in a steady stream, watery red slipping down his side and back.  “Doesn’t look like it hit anything vital.  If we don’t stitch it, will it heal?”

He grunted again.  “Sure.  Not well.”

“How long will it take?”

“If we stitch it?”  She nodded.  “Couple of days.”

She seemed impressed, carefully putting pressure on his side with one of the wet towels.  “Good thing you’re a miracle of modern science.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, as hoarse and choked as it was from the pain.  “Not sure about… about the modern part.”

She smiled faintly.  “Here.  Hold this.”  He leaned up again with a ridiculous amount of effort and put his own muddy, reddened hand over the towel and pushed down as hard as he could stand.  The lid of the first aid kit flipped open.  “We’re in luck.  There’s a suture kit in here.  Those people in the yacht obviously stocked for the worst.”

“Lot of good that did ’em,” he grumbled.

She pulled out the sutures, silk and black.  There were in a sterile wrapper that didn’t look compromised, so that was a small blessing.  “Anyone ever tell you that you kinda turn into a smart ass when you’re hurt?”

 _Bucky.  For twenty years._   He didn’t answer that, though.  Not when it brought a knot right to his throat.  “Don’t waste that,” he gruffly ordered as she pulled the stopper from the top of the vodka bottle.  “Can’t get sick.”

“Who said I was opening it for you?” she quipped.  Again, he couldn’t help but laugh as she took a long swig of the alcohol.  She tipped the bottle at him.  “Want some?”

“Can’t get drunk, either.”

“That’s a raw deal.”

“You’re telling me.”  He watched as she set the vodka aside, opened the wrapper of the suture kit, and expertly threaded the needle.  Thunder moaned in the distance, and the sound of the rain striking leaves was nearly as loud as his shallowly thrumming heart.  He’d had his wounds cleaned and sutured dozens of times since the serum.  It was never a pleasant experience.  In addition to alcohol having no effect on him, analgesics and anesthesia were completely useless.  With a memory as sharp as his…  He wasn’t looking forward to this.  And for some reason, that made him realize he was being something of an inconsiderate jerk caught up in his own problems.  “Are you okay?  Sorry.  I didn’t even ask.”

“Fine,” she replied, not quite curtly but in a way that suggested it wasn’t open for discussion.  “Nothing I can’t deal with myself.”

He didn’t know whether to be relieved that she wasn’t seriously hurt or annoyed at the implication that he was and _required_ her help.  He decided not to be either.  Instead he lay as still as he could manage, keeping his breathing even and slow and awaiting the prick of that needle in his flesh.  When his side positively _caught fire_ , he let loose a ragged cry.  A full body shudder wracked over him as the waves of agony slowly receded.  “What the hell?” he moaned, blinking tears from his eyes as he managed to lean up and glare at her.  She put the top back on the bottle of vodka.  “I told you not to waste that!”

“And I don’t want to take the chance,” she returned tightly.  That was sobering in a way, even as he trembled with the aftershocks of the pain.  He didn’t say anything as she unbuttoned his shorts, working them down his thighs gently to get them away from the area.  Then she held the needle between her thumb and forefinger of her right hand and positioned the towels around his side with the left.  “You ready?”

“Hold on.”  Clumsily he stretched to reach into the bag and get the utility belt from his uniform.  She realized what he wanted and helped him pull it loose.  The bag she moved under his head in a makeshift pillow as he slid the belt into his mouth and bit down hard.  He drew a deep breath, trying to brace himself.  Then he nodded.

It was silent for quite a while as she worked and he suffered through it.  He wanted to stay loose, pliant against the pain, but it was difficult.  It always was.  He tried not to think about the feeling of the needle poking through his skin and the thread sliding through after it, of his flesh being drawn back together.  He breathed through his nose, grinding his teeth into the leather, clenching his hands into fists that ripped the moss straight out of the ground and pulverized it into mush between his squeezing fingers.  He kept his gaze skyward, watching the leaves overhead flutter as the fat drops of rain cascaded onto them.  Lightning flashed occasionally, a dim, burst of illumination that colored the gray of the clouds a lighter, almost lilac hue, and thunder inevitably followed.  He focused on that, on making himself think the sound of the rain and the gentle grumbling of the sky was soothing.  A mix of rain, sweat, and tears blurred his vision.

Thankfully, she was quick and disturbingly experienced, just as she’d proclaimed herself to be earlier.  She didn’t speak, probably too hardened to offer up shallow promises that it would be over soon.  However, her thumb settled on the hollow of his hip every so often, and every so often it swept in a comforting circle.  He was grateful for that.

And he was grateful when it was over, even if it lasted what felt like a miserably long time.  She cut the thread and tied the sutures off.  “Deep breath,” she warned, and she gave him a chance to draw one before the burn of the alcohol returned.  Steve threw his head back into the bag, unable to stop himself from arching and going completely rigid as nerve endings tortured beyond the pale were brutalized again.  He couldn’t get the air into his lungs to scream, which was probably just as well.  No sense in alerting the pirates as to where they were.  This time it took him longer to come down from the pain.  He wheezed a little, shivering despite the ungodly temperatures and hot drizzle splattering down on him.  “Easy,” Natasha said.  Now she was soothing him, and she wasn’t doing a thing to hide it.  Her hand was on his bicep, gently squeezing, before sliding down to take his hand.  She folded their fingers together.  It felt nice.  Grounding.  “You’re alright.  It’s over.”

The pain faded, and he sagged back down onto the wet ground.  “Fun,” he whispered when he could find the strength to get the belt out of his mouth.  Natasha grinned weakly, letting go of his hand.  She patted his flank with the blood-stained towel to try and dry it.  His side was a tender mess of throbbing awfulness, and every brush of her fingers and cloth to his skin anywhere in the proximity of the wound was torture.  He swallowed down the bile in the back of his throat and propped himself up to see how bad it was.  His side was swollen and enflamed red, but a neat, precise row of black stitches had closed the wound.  She’d done a remarkable job.  “Thanks,” he murmured.

She nodded.  “Most of the bandages are wet,” she declared regretfully.  She set a couple carefully over the injury.  “These aren’t too bad.  Can you…”  He reached down and pressed the pads down.  She tried tape to hold them in place, but his skin was too damp for it to stick.  Annoyed, she tossed the useless roll back in the first aid kit and found some gauze to use instead.  “Sit up.”

It took more pain and effort than it should have to do that.  She angled herself around while he struggled, unrolling the gauze and trying to find its driest sections.  When she turned back, he sat up at precisely the same second, and suddenly they were so close, their faces accidentally and inadvertently and unexpectedly _so close_ , that their lips practically touched.

Steve froze.  Natasha did, too.  There was a hair’s breadth of distance between them, a sliver of a gap.  Barely anything.  _Nothing._   Despite the shock of it, he didn’t move away.  Neither did she.  He couldn’t breathe, air locked in his chest.  She wasn’t breathing, either.  He couldn’t think above the sudden racing of his heart and the flush of heat that was rolling over him in a pleasant, exciting, _enthralling_ wave.  Warm.  He felt _warm_ for the first time since he’d woken up in the here and now.  And he could see more of her that he hadn’t noticed before.  How much taller and broader he was than her, but how beautiful the curves of her muscles were.  How depthless her eyes were.  Not simply blue and green, but _endlessly_ so.  The pert end of her nose nearly against his.  The smoothness of her skin, flawless and pale.  The fullness of her lips.  _Her lips_ , inching even closer.

She was going to kiss him.  He didn’t know anything about women, and he didn’t know anything about her, but her eyes flooded with desire and he _was certain_ that she was going to do it.  She was really going to kiss him.  And he didn’t know why or what she wanted or what that would feel like.  But he knew for certain that he wanted to.  He wanted her to.

The moment lingered.  He could feel the warm pulse of her shallow breaths on his lips, the fire in her eyes a tangible, powerful thing as they searched his.  There was something else in them now, though.  Fear.  Doubt.  _Vulnerability._   She hesitated and uncertainty devoured her desire.  _Uncertainty._   This wasn’t…  She couldn’t…  She wasn’t…

She didn’t.  She jerked away a second before he did, and that tentative moment ended harshly.  Thunder rudely crashed, and she looked away like she was refusing to let him see her eyes.  The heat vanished.  He felt light-heated and sodden and weak as she leaned back, leaned _away_ from him.   “Arms up,” she ordered in a weak, throaty voice.  He couldn’t quite process that, his brain still addled.  He’d left all rational thought behind, it seemed.  “Come on, Rogers.  Arms up.”

He complied, and the pain slicing along his wounded side and across his chest dashed any remainder of the moment before.  She came closer again, but her hands were nothing but methodical as she replaced the pads overly the newly stitched wound and starting working the gauze around him.  Still she refused to look at him, her eyes narrowed and unreadable and intent on his injury.  Eventually she got tired of dealing with his shirt being in the way and quickly unbuttoned it before working it less than gently off of him.  She was irritated now.  He didn’t know why.  He grimaced, closing his eyes against that and against the storm of his own emotions roiling inside him.  The sourness of disappointment.  Confusion.  Frustration, both with himself and her.  _Peggy._   The image of her was like a thorn in his mind, beautiful and stunning and _angry_.  It wasn’t rational, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was good that nothing had happened because he could have _betrayed_ _Peggy._

That was painful, as was the sharp awkwardness that was back between him and Natasha now like it had never left.  They’d had plenty of unpleasant moments before, but this was unbearable.  She was still so close, unwinding the gauze and wrapping it around him, _so close_ that he could still feel how warm she was.  And that did nothing but leave him aching, tingling, and oddly _wanting_ , like something _had happened_ and he needed more.  Eventually the quiet grew too thick, too tense.  “That was pretty amazing, the way you fought back there,” he said.  He wasn’t specific, but they both knew to what he was referring.  And it bothered her.  She stopped suddenly, her arms halfway around his lower body.  Again, it was a small thing because she immediately went back to it, but he noticed.  And he probably shouldn’t have asked at all, and he definitely shouldn’t press, but it was bothering him, too, now even more than it had since she’d murdered that pirate and barely restrained herself from doing the same to Rego.  “Amazing and intense.  And pretty ruthless.  Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

She said nothing at first.  With a sharp motion, she tied the gauze tight, tight enough to jerk against the tender wound beneath it.  Steve grimaced and had the feeling that was a warning.  “I told you,” she reminded, lowly and calmly.  “I’m not interested in sharing.  Or stupid small talk.”

That wild, powerful connection was just _dead_ again, smashed, and the distance between them might as well have been miles wide.  “I’m not making small talk,” he said tightly.  “I’m asking you a question.”  She looked up, and now the warning wasn’t so subtle.  The stubborn set of her jaw and the renewed fire in her eyes suggested she wasn’t going to answer.  Frustration got the better of him.  “I want to understand you.  I think you’re an incredible fighter, and I want to understand where that comes from because there’s power there that…”  Frightened him.  Alarmed him.  _Attracted him._   He couldn’t finish. She said nothing, grabbing another roll of gauze and resuming her task.  The silence returned.  He’d tried hard not to push, not to pry, not to stick his nose where it wasn’t wanted.  For days, he’d been trying.  He’d allowed her her distance, put up with her cold behavior, given her the benefit of the doubt over and over again.  Now… he _wanted_ an answer.  He didn’t often feel like anyone owed him anything, that he only deserved what he earned, but he felt like he _deserved_ this.  He sighed through his nose, trying to keep his emotions in check with a fraction of the aplomb and control she always had.  “The Red Room?  Is that where–”

“You wouldn’t be able to understand,” she declared, tying the bandages even tighter this time before standing and walking away.

“I wouldn’t be able to…”  It took a lot of energy, and it hurt _a lot_ , but he stood right after her and grabbed her wrist tightly.  “No.  That’s enough.  I am sick and tired of everyone treating me like this wide-eyed, stupid… _kid_ who doesn’t know up from down in this world.  You do it.  Fury does it.  Stark and Hill and the damn doctors and therapists…”  He could hardly contain his anger and frustration.  “You people are all convinced that I’m just lost and drowning.  Well, I’m not.  I know how things are.  The world _is_ different, but you know what?  A lot of it is _exactly_ the same, including people being used and hurt and damaged.”  He glared at her now.  He glared, and she actually faltered.  “I fought in what I think is still the biggest and bloodiest and deadliest war in history.  So I _know_ what evil is when I see it.  Stop treating me like I don’t.  Stop treating me like I’m old-fashioned and incompetent and some kind of liability.  I don’t give a damn what you think of me, but the least you can do until we get off this island is treat me with respect!”

Her eyes flashed.  The tension between them was like lightning.  “You want respect?  You thought what I did back there was amazing, huh.  Intense.  It was _murder_ , Captain, plain and simple.  That power you like?  That’s what I use it for, what Fury uses it for.  You really want to be a part of that?”  She pulled her wrist away, though not as harshly as she could have.  That stoic mask was back, softer perhaps but just as infallible as it had been.

His eyes tracked over her face, trying to read past it.  “I want to trust you.”

“Then trust me,” she said simply.  It wasn’t said cruelly or sarcastically.  It wasn’t said to tease or manipulate him.  She wasn’t trying to demean him.  She was serious.  He didn’t know what to make of it.  He’d never been so confused by someone in his life as he was by her.  She could so seamlessly, so easily, slip from one person to another.  A powerful killer.  A shameless flirt.  A fiery seductress.  A cold and calculating SHIELD agent.  A compassionate listener.  Was Natasha Romanoff actually any of these people?  Was Black Widow _all_ of these people?  He didn’t know.  And the way she said that to him…  _“Then trust me.”_ It was almost like she was giving up, tossing the ball back in his court because she didn’t know how to trust or how to have faith in anyone.  She had no concept of friendship, so it was up to him to define it between them, to determine what constituted it, to make sense of it.  She was who she was, and he could take that or leave it.

He just didn’t understand how anyone could live like that.

The silence had softened the tension without him realizing it.  He was tired and worn enough that the seconds had just escaped, and when he came back to himself, he realized just a bit too late that he was mostly naked save for his boxers.  And he was dizzy and teetering a little.  _Blood loss._   The thought never turned into anything more than that.  Natasha thankfully took his arm and steadied him before he fell and did more damage to himself.  “You should rest.  But drink some more first.”  Her eyes were darker now, still shrouded to him but he thought there was honest concern there.  “We both should.”

She guided him back down and helped him lay on his good side on the moss.  It had stopped raining somewhat, so that was a bit of a relief.  If she was at all bothered by his significant state of undress, she didn’t seem it.  She simply found another bottle of water and opened it for him.  He drank as she undid the laces of his boots and pulled them off.  He was too tired to wonder what she was doing or argue that she shouldn’t do it.  After finishing with that, she fished more food out.  Dried meat and some chocolate.  They ate in a companionable silence again (although maybe it simply felt companionable because he was too woozy to notice otherwise).  The tension ebbed and the pain did, too, slowly but steadily.

Natasha sniffed, wiping her face.  She’d washed her hands as best as possible, but they still looked reddened to Steve.  She was nibbling on another chocolate bar, having finished a few pieces of dried meat.  “Did you notice how Rego talked about the 084?”

The question took him aback.  It required some effort to focus.  “What do you mean?”

She cocked an eyebrow.  “He called it the Eye.”

He tried to think about that, but everything was a tad fuzzy around the edges and his thoughts felt blunted.  He had noticed that, had thought it passing strange, but…  “So?”

She held his gaze, swallowing the chocolate before continuing.  “You think Rego’s up on the latest and greatest finds in Egyptian archaeology?  Especially given the fact that Halliday’s research is sort of on the fringe?”

Steve mulled over that a moment, and then his face went lax with understanding.  “Halliday’s involved.”  It wasn’t a question.  “Halliday told him about it.”

She nodded.  “Makes sense.  Maybe he even hired Rego to steal his own discovery.”

“That… seems like a stretch.”

“Does it?  Think about it.  He probably has grants or sponsors.  If someone funded his dig, they probably have rights to anything he finds.  And if he wanted the Eye for himself, what better way than to have it ‘go missing’?”  She tipped her head slightly.  “He didn’t even tell Fury what it was called.”

His stomach clenched in unhappiness.  “You’re right.”  He closed his eyes and shook his head.  Now that he saw the connection, he couldn’t ignore it.  That couldn’t be a coincidence.  Natasha was smart, saw details that other people missed.  She was an expert at what she did.  Of course she was right.  He released a long breath.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said anything to him back in London.  I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s alright.  We couldn’t have known.”

That took him aback even more.  There was no anger in her eyes, no accusation, no frustration with his ignorance and ineptitude.  He swallowed through a dry throat.  “Why involve SHIELD then?”

Natasha shrugged.  “Rego was selling everything.  Halliday probably got nervous.  Having the Eye in SHIELD’s custody is maybe better for him than losing it again.  At least he’d know where it is.”

It made sense in a twisted sort of way.  Steve sighed.  “We need to get it to Fury, whatever it is.”

She nodded.  For the moment, the 084 was safe in her pocket, given that his shorts were torn and a blatant mess.  Her eyes were a bit distant as she pulled it free and examined it more closely.  Further and further away thunder groused, the storm lethargically taking its leave.  She waited until it was quiet again before speaking.  “There has to be something about it.  Maybe it’s worth money, but I’ve never seen anyone go through so much trouble for a jewel like this.  It’s not a diamond.  I don’t know what it is.”  Steve stared at the orange rock.  He didn’t know anything about jewels, but even he could tell it was odd.  A little unsettling.  She was right again.  There was definitely something about it, something they weren’t seeing.  “I don’t think Halliday is the type to be interested in money, either.”

“No,” he agreed.  “I don’t think so.”

She put the Eye back in her pocket.  Then she pulled her guns from behind her.  “I’ll keep watch this time.  You sleep.”  Automatically he opened his mouth to protest, but she stood, gathering up his ruined shirt and equally ruined shorts.  She took the other towel, which was miraculously fairly dry and free of blood, and draped it over his mostly naked body.  He’d been shivering and he hadn’t even realized it.  He wasn’t realizing a lot of things.  Exhaustion and pain had worn him to nothing.  She looked down on him, face empty and eyes stern.  “I mean it.  Sleep.  I’ll handle it.”

She didn’t give him a chance to argue or protect.  He wanted to.  He wanted more, but she just walked away.  Steve watched her a moment or two, feeling pathetically helpless.  His fatigue got the better of him shortly thereafter, and he blinked blearily, turning to stare up at the overhanging branches and the gray sky behind them.  He heard Natasha moving around their little camp.  Heard her check her guns.  Heard her trying to wash the blood out of his clothes.  His eyes drifted shut to the sound of her breathing.  And he fell asleep, deliriously wondering what it would have been like if she’d actually kissed him.

* * *

“Steve?”

He knew that voice.  Soft.  Sweet.  Familiar.  Peggy’s voice.  She needed only to say his name, and his heart stopped.

“Steve, wake up, darling.”

The pain was gone.  The fear was gone with it.  He couldn’t see, but he could feel she was there.  Right there, beside him.  Where was he?  It didn’t matter.  The Red Skull was dead.  They’d stopped HYDRA.  Howard had found the _Valkyrie_ , gotten him out, saved him…  The ice was gone, too.  He wasn’t cold anymore.  He wasn’t freezing to death in the shattered cockpit of HYDRA’s plane.  He wasn’t lost.  _They’d found him._ He wasn’t going to die out here alone.

“You’re not alone.  You never have been.  I’m here now, Steve.  We can have our dance, just like you promised.  Next Saturday at the Stork Club.  I’ll teach you how to dance.  I imagine you’re quite hopeless at it.”

He was.  He’d never danced before.  He’d never had someone to dance with before.  He’d never had _her_.  _The right partner._

Her lips brushed over his, timid and tentative at first even though this was their second kiss.  The first had been borne of the moment, of fear and desperation but so much faith.  It had been rushed and fleeting and shocking.  This was longer, sweeter, more perfect.  A perfect kiss.  A perfect kiss from her.  She was with him, and he was alive, and–

“The war’s over now,” she swore gently, cradling his face, sweeping her fingers carefully through his hair.  “Wake up, darling.  Come home.  We can be together now.  We can be together…”

_I love you, Peggy._

“Rogers!”

Steve gasped, his eyes snapping open.  He lurched upward before he remembered where he was and that he was hurt.  Pain clawed its way up and down his side and across his torso, and he shuddered and flopped back down to the ground, pressing his hand over the wound in his flank and curling onto his other side to get his weight off of it.  The dream ( _please, not a dream!_ ) disappeared like it had never been there at all.  It was hot and dark and eyes were watching him from the shadows.  Not Peggy’s eyes.  A hand was on his shoulder, firm and practical.  Not Peggy’s hand.  _Natasha._   “Wake up!  We have to go.  _Now._ ”

“What?” he mumbled.  His tongue felt like a lump of clay in his mouth, useless and thick.  He couldn’t make it work.  Or his brain.  That wouldn’t work either.  “What?”

“They’re coming!  Get up!”  She was rapidly moving away, gathering up things and shoving them into the bag.  She was wearing the mud-streaked capris, but her shirt was missing.  She’d obviously been in the process of trying to tend to her own injuries; the slice on her shoulder was mostly bandaged, and there were wrappers and gauze spread around on the moss beside him.  He was so alarmed and disoriented that for a moment all he could do was stare at her as she rushed to pack.  “Get up.  Get up!”  She was at his side again, grabbing his arm harshly and frantically enough to dig her nails into his flesh.  _“Get up!”_

There was a shallow _thunk_ and something with a glowing orange trail shot overhead.  It was bright in the darkness, whizzing past them to hit the trees beyond.  The explosion was shocking, snapping Steve right out of his confusion.  “Shit,” Natasha whispered against him.  She slung the bag over her good shoulder and shoved his shield at him.  “Go!”

He scrambled up clumsily, ignoring the fact that he was barefoot and not dressed, that his muscles hurt and his side positively burned as the stitches were stretched, and ran.  She was right behind him, tearing through the trees agilely.  Steve glanced over his shoulder when he heard shouting in Portuguese.  _Damn it._   He saw dark blobs shaped like men and bobbing lights.  Dozens of them.  Rego and his crew.  _We shouldn’t have stopped.  I shouldn’t have slept.  Damn it!_   There was no time to do anything but flee.  The sound of another RPG being launched at them sent fear stabbing through his heart.  He reached back and took Natasha’s arm, yanking her closer as the forest behind them burst into flames.  The trees were wet, laden with moisture from the rain, so the fire didn’t burn very hot or long at all.  But it was still enough to be scorching and painful.  And it was impossible to see where they were going it was so damn dark.  Steve’s eyesight was keener than anyone’s, and even he was having a difficult time spotting the ruts and pitfalls ahead of them.  They almost plowed directly into tree after tree, but together their quick reflexes availed them.  Their luck wasn’t going to last, though.  Not with the pirates bearing down on them.

The racket of a minigun was thunderous.  Bullets slammed into the ground behind them, ripping huge holes into soft earth and tearing the trees apart.  Natasha ducked as a salvo beat into the trees beside her.  She whirled and fired back, but as dark and dizzying as the night was, there was no way to tell if any of her shots struck true.  “Over here!” Steve shouted when he spotted cover.  He ran faster and leapt over a fallen log, tucking himself behind it and waiting for her to join him.  “This is bad,” he muttered as she landed beside him.

“No kidding.”  Her hair was sticking to her face with perspiration as she ejected two spent clips from her guns and reloaded them.  “Don’t they call you the Man with the Plan?  Now would be a good time to come up with one!”

“That’s not a nickname I gave myself, you know!” he shouted back.

Before she could respond to that, the tree behind them shuddered and broke apart with the force of the minigun’s next assault.  Bullets punctured the soft, rotted wood, piercing through nearly three feet of it to whizz past them.  Natasha gasped, slashed by a sharp chunk of bark that was ripped away and flung at them.  Steve grunted as he was hit as well.  He snatched her hand and pulled her away from their rapidly disintegrating cover.  Together they ran and ran, forcing all the speed they could from themselves, from tired bodies and desperate minds.  How long could they go like this?  He didn’t even know what direction they were headed; they could have been running in goddamn circles!  _Really bad._   He had a sinking feeling that this was going to be where their little cat and mouse game with Rego would end, and it wasn’t going to end in their favor.

Sometimes he hated being right.

The ground right in front of them in front of them disappeared in a ball of fire as another RPG struck.  _Too close!_ Steve skidded to a stop, his bare feet sliding through mud.  He tucked Natasha against his chest, falling to his knees and pulling them both down.  Without a second to spare he brought his shield up against the fire and debris.  He could feel her pounding heart against his breast, her fingers clenching him tight as the force from the blast slammed over them.  It seemed to take forever for it to end.  But it ended.

And when Steve lowered his shield, they were surrounded.

They stood and immediately put their backs to each other, Steve with his shield up protectively and Natasha pointing both of her guns at slew of pirates encircling them.  Light shone on them, painful and glaring, from the flashlights the pirates carried.  Even somewhat blinded, Steve could see they were pretty significantly outnumbered.  Rifles and shotguns were leveled at the two of them, numerous red dots dancing on their chests.  He knew enough about modern weaponry to realize those were laser guides.  The pirates had their fingers were poised on their triggers.  Moreover, their eyes were wrathful and irritated.  It would take nothing for these men to open fire, as frustrated as they were with their quarry, and Steve knew they couldn’t outfight so many or outrun bullets at this close range.  And when two guys, one with the RPG launcher and the other with the minigun, joined their compatriots in scowling and aiming their weapons at them, their fate was all but sealed.

The stink of smoke and burning leaves filled the dense, humid air.  The crackle and hiss of weak flames sputtering on wet wood was incredibly loud.  The forest seemed to shudder with the damage done to it, the night turning thick and malignant.  Steve pressed himself tighter to Natasha, eyeing their enemies warily.  After a seemingly long moment of tense silence, Rego appeared through the line of his men.  He had a ridiculously huge bruise of his face, and he was limping slightly.  When his piercing eyes fell upon his prey, he smiled smugly.  “You didn’t think you were actually going to escape, did you?”  The question was directed at Natasha, not Steve.  And Natasha said nothing, glaring at him.  Rego gave a little nod.  “Guns down, _gatinha_.”  She hesitated, glancing dangerously among the men, calculating and analyzing and considering.  And he hesitated, too, gauging his reaction off of hers.  If she fought, he would as well.

But they were beat, and it was sadly and completely obvious.  She loosened her aggressive stance, dropping her weapons to the forest floor.  Rego positively beamed with satisfaction.  His eyes moved to Steve.  “You, too.  Drop the shield.”

Steve gritted his teeth.  There was no choice.  He let his arm slide from the straps of his shield, and it fell.  More than a dozen of the pirates came closer, rifles still firmly at the ready, and a few of them went to collect their discarded weapons and Steve’s shield.  “Hands on your head,” Rego ordered.  “Both of you.”

That was even more difficult to do.  _No choice._   Every muscle in Steve’s body was stiff in anger and frustration as he shared a furious glance with Natasha.  She complied, so he did, too, threading his fingers together on the back of his head.  He firmly ignored the jolt of pain raising his arm caused along his wounded side.  The men laughed.  For a split second, he thought they were laughing at him, that he hadn’t hidden how much it hurt nearly as well as he’d thought.

Then he realized they were laughing and catcalling at Natasha.  With her arms raised, her chest was rather exposed, covered by only her damp bra.  And the pirates were grinning lasciviously, openly ogling her with lust and power in their eyes.  Clenching every muscle in his body and driving his teeth into his tongue until he tasted blood was all Steve could do to stay still.  Rego smirked along with his thugs, his eyes languidly traveling up and down the length of Natasha’s body.  “And what, pray tell, were you doing when we interrupted you?”  He glanced at Steve, who wasn’t any more covered in just his underwear.  At least Natasha had pants.  “Breaking in your new partner?”

Steve stiffened in fury.  Natasha spoke before he could.  “Would you prefer that I break you in? I’ll start with your neck.”

The pirates laughed again, obviously considering that to be a frivolous threat.  From the cold, baleful glower on Natasha’s face, Steve knew it was anything but.  Rego guffawed along with them before stepping closer.  “Cute.  I’d like to see you try,” he commented.  His voice gained a harder edge.  “Where’s the Eye?”  Natasha remained cool, pliant, staring him down.  She said nothing.  Rego smiled, revealing gold teeth.  “It’s pretty obvious he doesn’t have it.”  He tipped his head toward Steve.  “That leaves you.  So I’ll ask you again.  Where is it?”

She was so cool, so powerful.  Untouchable.  “Search me then,” she invited.  “See if you can find it.”

Rego grinned, clearly amused at how she turned his own words back on him.  When he’d said them back in the warehouse in Lisbon, they’d been full of lust.  Hers were frozen, a threat far more than an invitation.  A challenge.  And he took it, of course.  Steve couldn’t make himself watch the bastard touch her.  His face grew hot with rage and shame on Natasha’s behalf, and he thought about charging him, attacking him and giving Natasha chance to run, but he knew he could never do that fast enough to avoid being shot, not with so many guns on him.  And he’d get shot if it would save her from this, but somehow he doubted that was what she wanted.  That was all that kept him in his place.

The pirates were laughing, whistling in appreciation as their boss groped Black Widow.  “Find it yet?” Natasha calmly asked.

Rego’s hands slid down to her pants.  Steve saw him move closer out of the corner of his eye, pushing his hips into Natasha’s as he slipped his fingers into her pockets.  There was no way he wasn’t going to find the Eye.  He smiled with not quite feigned gratitude as he pulled the gem from Natasha’s left pocket.  In the glaring light, he raised the orb almost triumphantly, and the shafts of harsh illumination caught its surface as he did.  It glowed orange, entrancing and beautiful.  He appraised it appreciatively a moment, so pleased to have reclaimed his lost loot.  Then all the mirth slid from his face as he turned to the two people who’d caused all the trouble.  “Bring them.”  As his men came closer and closer, he winked at Natasha.  “Just in case this isn’t worth anything.  I’m sure Fury will pay a pretty penny to get his little spider back.”

* * *

These bastards obviously had _no idea_ who he was.

They were dumb enough to lock his hands into simple handcuffs.  Steve broke them without even trying.  They tried _again_ , binding him tighter, more vicious about it.  He snapped the chain, wrested his wrists free with no effort at all, and broke three arms and a leg or two before anyone could bring him down.  Being that Steve didn’t understand Portuguese that well, he couldn’t make out what they were shouting while they were floundering like chickens with their heads cut off to restrain him.  The vulgarity and rage were obvious enough.  Somebody finally landed a particularly hard strike against his wounded side, and that slowed him down sufficiently that a huge group of them was able to manhandle him inside a truck.  There Rego belted him with all his strength, not that all his strength was really even enough to move Steve’s face with the blow.  Steve just glared at him.  “You make yourself more trouble than you’re worth and I’ll put a bullet in your brain,” he warned.

Steve cocked an eyebrow.  “Tell me exactly how much trouble I’m worth then, so I know how far I can go.”  He glanced down at his mud-splattered legs.  “And I would appreciate it if I could borrow a pair of pants.”

Rego’s eyes flashed in anger, and he kicked Steve right where the bandages were the thickest.  Steve managed to stifle his cry, but he went limp and Rego got another vicious strike in before he spat on Steve’s face and stalked away.  Steve wheezed a little, struggling to regain his composure, and wiped the saliva from his cheek.  There was another ruckus at the back of the truck.  They were bringing Natasha up.  Her hands were bound behind her, and while Steve figured she probably had a million and one ways to get herself out of handcuffs, but she was fairly complacent as they dragged her into the truck.  The pirates were staring again, making no effort to hide exactly how much of a turn-on this was to them.  If one of them so much as made a move toward her…

Rego had told them not to touch, and to their credit, they were following his orders.  They simply pushed Natasha down onto her knees across from Steve on the truck’s flatbed.  Numerous guns were turned on her.  One of the pirates slurred half a warning.  “She dies.  _Entendeu?_ ”

Steve squeezed his hand into a fist hard enough to crack his knuckles.  They might not have known who he was or what he was capable of doing, but they were evil and baseless enough to figure out how to control him.  In a better situation, he and Natasha could have certainly dispensed with this many men.  But not with her at their mercy.  Not with both of them that way.  Surrounded and trapped with dozens of guns on them and unwavering.  And without the 084.  He couldn’t be certain, but he thought Natasha was probably biding her time.  There was no way to get it back at the moment, not with Rego jumping down from the trailer and heading around to the cab.  And they had to.  They had to get it back.

The truck roared to life.  Steve sank down to his knees at the gesturing of an automatic rifle.  Both of them had at least six guns on them, and the pirates had been wizened to the fact that they weren’t dealing with the average sort of opponents.  Not one of them relaxed, and the weapons stayed up and ready.  The truck started rumbling and bouncing along.  It was covered, well-lit by its internal illumination system, but there was no way to see outside so it was impossible to tell where they were going.  Wherever it was, it didn’t take long to get there.  The truck stopped and the back opened again.  “Get up,” snapped one of the pirates, a huge barrel of a guy who looked predictably mean-tempered.  Steve climbed to his feet, watching as they hauled Natasha upward and pushed her out of the truck.  They pushed him, too, and he followed without a fight.

They were back at the ocean.  The night was thick and very dark, once more the heavy clouds of the rainy season blocking the moon and stars, but even so Steve could see the ship anchored off shore and away from the shallows.  His heart sank.  _The Black Hand._ There were a few motor boats pushed up onto the beach.  “In,” the same brute ordered.  Guns were jabbed into his back.  “Now.”

A few minutes later, they were zooming across the inky ocean toward the pirates’ ship.  Steve and Natasha were in separate boats.  Natasha was on her knees, and they were making sure he could see her.  A few of the pirates had their hands on her shoulders and their guns at her head.  Rego stood at the bow of the motorboat, one knee up on the edge of it with the wind blowing through his black hair like some sort of pirate from centuries past.  And the son of a bitch had Steve’s shield slung over his shoulder like some sort of battle trophy.  Steve was so aggravated and frustrated with this entire situation that it took every ounce of his control to stay submissive.  The boats bounced across the water, jostled against the waves, but despite the choppy seas they were at the _Black Hand_ in short order.

It was a destroyer, outdated but retrofitted.  The men worked quickly to raise the boats and secure them.  Steve and Natasha were forced on board, where more pirates were waiting with weapons at the ready.  They were led to the deck, where even _more_ pirates were gathered.  Obviously Fury’s intel on the size of Rego’s crew had been incorrect.  Either that or he’d hired additional mercenaries given who’d been chasing.  Along the main deck there were numerous larger guns, mismatched and not well-kept but the sort that were big enough to fire anti-aircraft missiles.  Like he’d originally suspected, the _Black Hand_ had shot down their jet.

And Natasha had been right from the start.

Halliday was there waiting for them.  He was putting admirable effort into trying to appear comfortable and confident, but Steve could see it was a front.  The man was dressed in gray pants and a button down gray and blue plaid shirt.  He stuck out like a sore thumb, clean and well-groomed and very white-collar amidst this lot of dirty, scarred, tattooed ruffians.  And when he spotted Rego coming onto the deck, flanked by his army of men and bearing his prize, his expression shattered into one of relief.  Never mind the fact that two people in a significant state of undress were being dragged behind him at gunpoint.  Halliday didn’t even seem to notice, let alone care.  “Did you get it?” he asked breathlessly.  “Did you?”

Rego gave an oily smile.  He reached into his vest and pulled out the Eye.  In the bright floodlights washing the deck, it shone like amber on his palm.  Halliday’s eyes widened, and his relief was practically palpable it was so strong.  Steve was hardly an expert at situations like this, but he thought the professor was doing himself a hell of a disservice by being so desperate.  Men like Rego were sharks, and such a blatant desire to reclaim the Eye was like blood in the water to them.  “Thank the Lord,” Halliday murmured.  He lifted a silver briefcase.  “Here’s the money.”

“Not so fast,” Rego said.  He closed his hand over the gem.  “I want to know what this is.”

Again, Halliday’s dismay was so easy to read, and it was more than enough evidence that he was hiding something.  “We agreed.  No questions asked.”

“I’m asking one.”  That wasn’t a request or a renegotiation.  It was a statement.  And surrounded by dozens of men all armed to the teeth on the deck of his ship, Rego had all of the power to change the terms of whatever agreement they’d had.

Thankfully (for his sake anyway), Halliday seemed to realize that.  Seemed to.  “It’s an artifact, as I said.  One that I am about to pay you handsomely for recovering.  I’d very much like to conclude our business and be on my way, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I mind,” Rego countered more tersely.  “This relic of yours has caused me a hell of a lot of trouble.  I want to know why SHIELD sent one of it its top agents after it.  I want to know what it is.”  The air turned tense, and the pirates inched closer.  Steve caught Natasha’s gaze momentarily, but she turned to Halliday, too, clearly just as interested in the man’s answer.  Rego scrutinized Halliday.  “I can just take my money.  And I can toss this thing overboard, just to be a petty bastard.  How’s that sound?”  He took a few steps across the deck to do just that, raising his arm.

 _“No!”_ Halliday cried, jerking forward, face pale and eyes terrified.

Rego stopped.  Of course he’d been bluffing, and everyone had known it except for Halliday.  The professor was winded with panic, darting his gaze among the pirates and their captives in abject horror.  He seemed to recognize now that he was in a bind, that he’d gotten himself into real trouble (although Steve had no idea how he hadn’t seen that before).  “Alright,” he said with a shaking breath.  “Alright.”  He let that breath back out, hesitating despite the rifles pointed at him.  Hesitating and hesitating.  Rego was losing his patience, his jaw working as he ground his teeth.  Frankly, Steve was, as well.  Eventually Halliday ran a hand over his thinned, mussed hair and cleared his throat.  “The Eye of Ra can control time.”

Silence.

The pirates looked among each other, trying to make sense of that.  The only sense they could make, apparently, was that this man who’d hired them to steal his discovery really was as crazy and stupid as he seemed, because they started laughing.  Laughing loud and hard.  Halliday’s eyes hardened.  _This_ was what angered him, not the pirates’ rude and threatening treatment of him or (for heaven’s sake) their capturing and injuring two other people who’d, until recently, had been essentially working on his behalf.  He was mad that no one believed him.  “It’s true.  It does.  I have been studying the Eye for years.  I’ve read through _thousands_ of Egyptian texts and poured over glyphs from all over the ancient kingdoms and I’m telling you: this orb can manipulate time.”

“What?” Rego said around a sputtering chuckle.  “You mean turn it back?  Go to the future.”

“Yes.”

Rego laughed again, which caused another round of ridiculous and rough guffawing to go through his men.  Steve considered grabbing the rifle jabbed into his ribs while its bearer snickered distractedly, but he decided against it.  Not with the muzzle of a handgun still jabbed into Natasha’s temple.  Not with so many guns surrounding them.  “I think all those days baking out in the sun have fried your brain, _amigo_ ,” Rego said.

Halliday looked distressed.  Suddenly he was moving, reaching into his pocket and pulling out that same weathered piece of parchment he’d had back in his office in London.  He thrust that at Rego.  The pirates crowded closer, ready to kill the man if he got too close to their boss, but Rego gave a condescending smile and a little shake of his head to signal that they hold back.  “Look at this.  Look!  I have seen this phrase in hundreds of places in reference to the Eye of Ra.  Look here.  ‘Master of the sun’.  ‘Bringer of Ma’at’.  Over and over again.  _Master_ of the sun.  Think about that, what the sun meant to them.  The sun was _time._ ”  Rego squinted, like he couldn’t follow that.  “This gem can grant its wielder the ability to alter what’s to come.  To go into what’s behind us.  I’m certain of it.  It may seem a simple orb, but looks can be deceiving.  The Eye affords he who holds it the capacity to see past, present, and future.”

Rego didn’t look impressed.  “I’m holding it, and all I see is one crazy-ass bastard wasting my time.”  He reached out his hand and offered the Eye to Halliday.  “Convince me.  Prove it.”

Halliday blanched, and now he seemed hesitant to so much as glance at the jewel, let alone touch it.  “I can’t,” he said.

“Why the hell not?  Demonstrate the awesome power that this rock has,” Rego said, his voice facetious but not without a threatening edge.  “Tell me who’s going to win the World Cup this year.  Tell me where to invest all my fortune, eh?  Apple?  Google?”  Steve had no idea what those were.  “Tell me what I’m going to say before I even say it.”

Halliday worried his lower lip slightly, tucking his parchment back into his pocket with shaking fingers.  “I, uh…  It’s not that simple.  I don’t know how.  Hence why I want it back.”  His voice shook, like that wasn’t entirely true.  Or that wasn’t the whole reason.  “I need to study it.  I have to study it.  I need to take it back to Cairo, to the Valley of the Kings and search more there.  There must be a secret to it.  The old scribes wrote that the Eye of Ra would only open itself to one chosen by the gods.  ‘Will of the gods’.  ‘Worthiness of the gods’.  Over and over and over again these words have appeared alongside the Eye.”

“Sounds like a load of bullshit,” Rego said angrily.

“It isn’t!” Halliday returned.  He was utterly desperate to convince the other man.  “It isn’t.  If you’d just read the texts, you’d see it as I have, clear as day.”

Rego smirked.  “Well, I think I’m worthy.  What do you all think?”  The men grumbled their assent.  “So I can just stare into it and see the future?”  He made a mock show of peering into the orb, brow furrowed with false concentration.  Steve could have done without the theatrics.  “Oh, yes.  Yes.  I’m getting a vision.  It’s of me, selling this stupid piece of shit to make some damn money.”

“No, you’re not listening!” Halliday snapped.

“I don’t make money listening,” he returned.  “I make money stealing.  If you can’t make this thing work right here, right now in front of my own eyes, I’m calling you a liar.”

Obviously Halliday couldn’t.  He practically withered, knowing he couldn’t meet that challenge.  However, he managed to regain his spine.  “I shouldn’t have to convince you of anything.  We entered into an agreement.  I paid you one hundred thousand pounds to steal the Eye and return it to me.  Well, I’m here with my end of that bargain.”

“I think I’ve spent more than that trying to get the job done,” Rego said matter-of-factly.  He raised the Eye again, like he was critically appraising its value.  “Here, you want to educate me.  What’s this worth?”

“It’s priceless,” Halliday said hoarsely, like it was just now starting to dawn on him that he’d possibly made a mistake in involving pirates in his plot.  “Absolutely priceless.”

“Nothing is priceless,” Rego returned.  “Somewhere, somebody is going to be willing to buy this.  Rare gems always fetch a fortune.”  His brow furrowed slightly, and now he was staring at Halliday with the same scrutiny, like he was challenging him to argue.

Halliday was repulsed.  “You can’t sell it!”

“What is it to you, _amigo_?” Rego challenged.  “Surely you’re not dumb enough to believe your own crap.  Why do you really want it?  Why are you so worked up over a rock?”

Halliday looked around helplessly.  Steve couldn’t be sure, but he thought his eyes flashed with pain.  Grief.  Something rawer than desperation.  “My reasons are personal.  It’s not riches I’m after.  Or power.  That doesn’t interest me.  Do you think I would have stolen this money from the museum to get the Eye back just to sell it?”

Rego shrugged, smiling.  “Seems logical to me.  Buy low, sell high.”

Halliday grew flustered and more panicked.  “That’s nonsense!  I’ve spent my whole life studying this!  I have no interest in…”  He trailed off as though something was suddenly occurring to him.  “Please, give me a chance to prove it to you.  Let me show you.  Let me work on this.  Imagine what you could do with a gem that can control time.”

Steve was speaking before he could stop himself.  “Professor, you can’t–”  Without Rego’s direction, the group of men around him went at him, sweeping out his feet from under him and shoving him down.  He knew he could fight them off, _should have_ fought them off, but he couldn’t with Natasha stiff and threatened right in front of him.  She even gave a small, sad shake of her head.  Unfortunately (and maybe illogically), that was enough to kill any desire he had to struggle.  He let them push and kick him down to the deck, let them wrest his arms behind his back and hold him there.

 Halliday was undaunted by the display.  He was looking between the Eye in Rego’s hand and the pirate himself.  “I swear to you, if you give me the opportunity to figure out how to use the Eye, I will give it to you and teach you its secrets.  _That_ would be worth something.  Something beyond your wildest dreams.”

The deck was silent again, the eyes of the pirates on their boss awaiting his decision.  Steve jerked, fighting as much against his urge to escape as he was against the hands holding him down.  Rego finally stepped closer to Halliday, pursing his lips.  He pointed the forefinger of the hand holding the Eye at the archaeologist.  “If you lie to me…”

“I’m not lying,” Halliday quickly assured.  “And even if I was, you lose nothing.  The Eye is still in your possession to do with as you will.”

Rego considered that a moment, staring down the other man.  Steve craned his neck to see them, darting his eyes to Natasha and finding her coolly watching the situation unfold.  Eventually Rego sighed.  “Alright.  Get this ship moving.”  The pirates scattered to do just that.  “Take our dear business partner to the brig.”  Halliday blanched, like he’d expected better treatment.  He made a small token of resistance as he was surrounded.  “The quiet will give you some time to think, _amigo_ , which is good for you, because if you can’t deliver what you’ve promised?  You’ll be wishing you never made the offer.”  The professor’s eyes went wide with horror.  His case of money was unceremoniously wrenched from his hand.  Guns were shoved in his face and his arms were grabbed as he was practically carried away, limp and horrified.

Rego put the Eye back in his vest before turning to his other prisoners.  He smiled at Natasha.  She actually smiled back, but Steve could see it was forced.  Again, a challenge.  “Take this little spider to my quarters,” he told his men.  Natasha’s face remained completely impassive.  She didn’t even so much as blink as the pirates took her by the arms and hauled her across the deck.  They passed in front of Rego, pausing a moment for the man to run his fingers down Natasha’s cheek.  Steve lurched in disgust but stopped himself.  _“I don’t need your help.  I don’t need you to protect me.”_   How many times had she told him that?  She stood her ground, uncaring despite Rego’s leering appraisal of her.  And then they took her away.

Steve grunted as a boot slammed into his head, driving his temple down into the hot metal of the deck.  “What do you want to do with him?” another of the pirates said in sloppy English.

Rego stepped closer.  Steve recognized his garish boots as they approached.  He managed to glance up a little, just in time to see Rego take his shield back from another of his men.  “Shoot him.”  That was it.  If they were going to kill him anyway, then there was no sense in letting it happen.  Steve was about to put an end to this and _fight_ , but Rego stopped and cocked his head like he’d had a sudden epiphany.  “No, wait.  Why make it easy.  You’re a man out of time, yeah?  So how about something just as outdated as you are.”  Steve’s eyes narrowed.  Rego looked to his men.  “There must be something on this ship strong enough to tie him up.  Find it.”  His face turned cold, violent.  Cruel.  “Then haul him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gatinha_ – kitten (slang for sexy woman)  
>  _Entendeu?_ – Understand?  
>  _amigo_ – pal


	7. Chapter 7

Natasha _really_ hated waiting.

She’d been locked in Rego’s quarters for what felt like hours.  His thugs had left her there, surprisingly freeing her hands and thrusting a pile of clothes at her.  That wasn’t at all the treatment she’d expected.  Of course, they’d kept their guns on her, limiting her ability to escape.  She probably could have, but she didn’t think she could take on an entire ship of pirates, especially since she didn’t know where they’d taken Rogers.  Still, they hadn’t given her much of a chance.  They’d slammed the door, secured it, and left her there.

She knew they were outside, guarding her; she could hear them chatting despite the thick metal bulkheads.  But the door was immovable.  She’d tried the handle numerous times, and every time she was met with stiff resistance, a loud smack on the door from the other side, and a sharp warning to stop.  She was strong but not strong enough to break the lock or the door itself.  _Where’s Rogers when you need him?_   She didn’t want to think too much about that, in all honesty.  Doing that would require her to admit she was worried about him.  And she was.  She really was.  She couldn’t rightly say why.  She’d been on plenty of missions where she and Clint had been separated.  Clint had even been captured once and tortured.  He’d gone down while they’d been escaping with the data they’d been sent to retrieve from a terrorist bunker in Uzbekistan.  She’d gotten away, and he hadn’t.  She couldn’t recall how she’d felt at that moment.  Afraid?  Worried?  It had been early on in their partnership, and she distinctly remembered experiencing a need to save him.  A tentative need.  A strange, new thing.  It had been borne of more than simply navigating the intricacies of a new partnership.  It had been overcoming the hurdles of becoming a new _person._   Black Widow would have never cared for a fallen comrade before.  The Red Room had taught her to leave behind those who were weaker or less fortunate.  There was no place for concern, for fear, for guilt.  But SHIELD honored life much more than to what she was accustomed, and she’d mechanically infiltrated their enemies’ stronghold, eliminated the threat, and gotten Barton out.

After that, when they’d reached SHIELD medical and the doctors had patched up Barton’s wounds, he’d thanked her.  She hadn’t understood that at the time.  She’d just done what the mission had told her to do, just as she always had.

But the mission hadn’t explicitly said to return and save his life, and they had both known that.  And she’d done it.

She’d do it for Rogers, too.  Fight who she needed to.  Kill who was necessary.  Kill to see him safe.  Kill to prevent him from being hurt.  She was realizing that as she paced the ridiculously small confines of Rego’s quarters.  She’d do what she could to rescue him.  Still, she didn’t like this gnawing feeling of anxiety in her gut.  The echo of his angry voice filled the damnable silence.  _“Stop treating me like I’m old-fashioned and incompetent and some kind of liability.  I don’t give a damn what you think of me, but the least you can do is treat me with respect!”_   That made her angry and ashamed of herself (there was that _shame_ again – she still didn’t like it).  She knew he could take care of himself.  Of course he could.  He was right.  He was Captain America, and he’d fought in World War II and faced Nazis and crazy scientists and madmen.  He’d sacrificed himself to save the world.  He _knew_ what evil was.  But it didn’t make her feel better to think that.  In fact, it somehow made it worse, because it reminded her all too sharply that _he didn’t belong in this world._

It didn’t matter.  Wherever he was, whatever they were doing to him, no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t help him now.

And she knew she should be more concerned with her own problems.  She looked around for an escape, but there was nothing.  The bulkheads were welded and impenetrable.  There were a few vents, but they were far too small for her to enter.  The adjoining washroom was small and useless and unfortunately as inescapable as the rest of the room.  She stood, watching in frustration as the water sloshed in the toilet with the rocking of the ship.  Then she started to search for something to use as a weapon.  That was equally futile.  Rego’s quarters were surprisingly spartan; she would have anticipated he’d like the flourish of having his loot adorning his walls and floors.  This was nothing more than an ugly gray box of a room.  There was an ash tray loaded with cigarette butts and more than a few empty bottles of liquor.  Dirty clothes.  An overflowing trash can.  Of course he wouldn’t lock her up in a room full of guns and knives.  Conversely she didn’t need guns or knives to kill.

She appraised the clothes they’d left her.  They were ridiculous, black leather pants and a halter top, something Rego had probably stolen or had kept from a previous lover.  That latter explanation was a tad revolting, but she still changed into them just to be not so nearly naked.  They were as tight and uncomfortable as she feared they would be, so honestly, they weren’t much of an improvement.  Then she sat at the little table and waited as patiently as she could.  Waited.  And waited. She breathed slowly, forced any thoughts of Rogers out of her head, and brought forth that endlessly stoic strength the Red Room had given her.  It was almost a trance of sorts, where emotion wasn’t a risk.  It was never a risk.  She waited.

And _waited._

Finally the door to the cabin opened with a metallic squeal, and Rego was there.  He looked disgustingly pleased with himself when he spotted her at his table, looking just as he’d wanted her.  He grinned that greasy grin of his.  “Nice of you to dress up,” he commented like she’d done him the favor.  He sauntered inside, making a point to be certain she saw the group of thugs just outside the door with rifles and handguns.  He himself had a pair of revolvers on his belt and a knife strapped to his thigh.  He walked with his hands on his hips, with more swagger than seemed possible.  _I hate pirates._   “Although I think I preferred the view before.”

“That comes for a price,” she commented.  She was willing to flirt with him if she had to.  It was more than obvious what he wanted.  Moreover, it seemed like he wasn’t interested in taking it.  That meant he’d given her some power in this situation, power that she was completely capable of hiding from him and more than willing to use.  Men like Rego were easy to read and manipulate.  Power-hungry.  Arrogant to a fault.  Greedy.  And misogynistic.

“If that’s your way of asking me to give you back the rock, it’s not going to work, _gatinha_.”  He pulled the other chair out at the table and sat in it, leaning to a little cabinet to the left and pulling out a bottle of tequila and a couple of shot glasses.  He poured a couple of drinks and carefully slid hers across the table.  “ _Saúde_.”  He tipped his glass to her and downed it in one gulp.

Natasha coolly arched an eyebrow and did the same.  If he thought he was going to get her loose and drunk and have his way with her…  _No chance in hell._   She’d destroyed bigger, stronger men by the dozen in the past.  “Did you bring me here to chat over a drink?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he returned.  “Surprised?”  Natasha said nothing to that, allowing him to try and deduce her opinion from her emotionless expression.  He smiled.  “I can be a gentleman.  We don’t all plunder and pillage.”

“Excuse me if I think you’re full of shit,” she returned.  Still, she slid her glass back across the table in a clear request for another shot.  And she shifted to cross her legs at the knee and lean back in her chair.  His eyes went straight to where she wanted them to.  They stayed there as he refilled her glass.  “If you want to chat, then let’s chat.  What’s on your mind?”

“I’d very much like you on my lap again,” Rego said.  He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for that to be as playful as he wanted it to seem.  There was a definite hard edge to his tone that he was trying to cover.  “I’d like much more than that.”

“Do believe him?”

The question confused him.  His brow crinkled, and the mirth slipped from his eyes.  “Believe who, _gatinha?_ ”

Natasha downed another shot.  The tequila burned.  Of all liquors, it was her least favorite.  “Halliday.”

Rego made some ridiculously useless show of seeming nonchalant.  “Who?” he asked again.  Natasha gave a little, unamused smile.  “Oh.  The dumb shit in my brig.  I don’t know.  Does SHIELD believe him?”  He tipped the neck of the tequila bottle to his glass first before filling hers yet again.  Lifting the glass to his lips, he gave her a knowing smirk.  “Of course SHIELD does.  Otherwise they wouldn’t have sent their best agent after him.  Or Captain America.”  Rego laughed gruffly at that, tipping his head back carelessly and pouring his shot right down his throat.  “Tell me.  Is he as pathetic as he seems?  Surely a woman of your… reputation couldn’t have _requested_ being assigned a partner like that?”

“He’s not my partner,” Natasha coolly corrected.

Another shot was poured.  “Then you won’t care if we kill him.”

This was a test, and she knew it.  She knew it because she had constructed traps just like this one many times in the past.  Make a threat that wasn’t at all an idle one simply to observe what her mark’s reaction would be.  Push the right buttons to see what happened.  She was far too professional to be played like that.  “Not particularly, no.”

He smiled.  “You’re as heartless as they say.  I think, if your roles were reversed right now, he would do more to try to convince me to spare you.”

“He’s a moron.”

“Won’t argue with you on that one, _gatinha_.”

“But if you’d like to know, I wouldn’t recommend it.  Not if you want to bring the wrath of SHIELD and the American government down on you.”

“The Americans?  Pfft.  Like they would have the guts to come after me.  And last I checked the wrath of SHIELD is sitting here in my cabin at my mercy.”

“At your mercy?” she repeated in a low, sultry challenge.

He was slick.  He lifted his glass to her in another toast, a fake sign of respect and deference.  “Figure of speech, _gatinha._ ”  Down went the drink.  She wondered if he’d be stupid enough to get drunk with her there.  She probably didn’t need him to.  He was the type who overestimated his abilities and underestimated anything and anyone in his way.  “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about Captain America.  Or a crazy man and his crazy theories.”

“Then tell me what you want,” she said, not hiding the warning in her voice.

“You.”  His eyes glittered.  “On my lap.”  Now it was most definitely not a joke.  Or a request.  Natasha stared at him.  He was blissfully, _proudly_ ignorant if he thought that this was the first time she’d been in a situation like this.  She’d _trained_ for situations like this, been created for them.  Still, she played the part of considering her options, hesitating for the sake of hesitating, before downing her last shot and standing.  In anticipation, he pushed himself in his chair back to make room for her, though not enough that she wasn’t trapped between his chest and the table.  She slid over him, leather swishing and catching against leather, straddling his thighs.  His left hand went to the bare section of her lower back, but his right not so surreptitiously slid to his gun.  “Easy on _my_ jewels there.”

She released a long breath, trying to ignore the bulge in his pants.  “Now you’ve got me where you want me.”

He groaned in appreciation, staring at her chest where it was so barely covered by the halter.  “Yes, I do.  I told my men to keep their hands off.  You’re far too fine a thing to be wasted like that.  And…”  As Natasha settled, rocking her hips a little, he took his hand from his gun to rest both of them on her hips.  “I thought you might be open to some persuasion.”  His hands moved up further, tracing her sides lightly.  His skin was rough, callused.  “Bear in mind that that will change if you don’t agree to my proposition.”

“Do you think that scares me?”

“It should.”

It didn’t.  But he didn’t know that.  “What’s your proposition?”

He smiled, and his teeth glinted in the fluorescent lights overhead.  “You and me, together.”

The _Black Hand_ gave particularly rough roll over a large swell, and that brought them closer together.  “What?  As your mistress?  The Captain’s woman?”

“Whatever makes you happy, _gatinha._   I was going to be polite and suggest partner.”

She laughed at that and put her arms around his neck.  “Partner, huh.  And what makes you think I’d want to do this?”

“You’re Black Widow,” he replied as though she didn’t know that.  As though that alone should make his reasoning obvious.  Perhaps it did.  Given her dark and immoral past, maybe it made sense.  Five years of working for SHIELD didn’t come close to erasing a lifetime of being a monster.  That irked her, though she was far too composed to let her anger and discomfort turn into anything more than a fleeting tickle in the back of her mind.  “You cast yourself with whoever’s in power.  Used to be the Russians.  Now it’s SHIELD.  Tomorrow it’ll be me.  Don’t need some stupid mythical rock to see that.”

She smiled thinly as his fingers walked and danced their way up her back.  “I thought you wanted to squish me under your boot.”

“I’ve come to my senses.  I like rare treasures.  And you are among the rarest.”

“Black Widow kills her mates,” she reminded.

The fingers swept forward along her ribs.  “I like living dangerously.”  His voice turned to a purr as he boldly pressed a kiss along her collarbone.  Natasha was well used to this sort of intimate contact from disgusting men; the inclination to flinch never even manifested itself.  “Imagine it, _gatinha._   Black Widow aboard the _Black Hand._   We’d be the fiercest crew in the world.  You at my side, eliminating our enemies as only you can do.  Money and power.  _Freedom._   Have you ever really had those things?  Or have you just killed for them and stolen them and given them to someone else like a good slave?”

“Oh, come on now,” she said softly, inching even closer to get his face right into her neck.  His beard scratched over her skin, burning and unpleasant.  He leaned up and captured her lips.  It was like it had been before in the warehouse, sloppy with the illusion of far more technique than he really had.  He tasted like tequila and cigarettes.  “A slave is _exactly_ what you want.”

“No,” he argued, kissing her again.  She made herself return it.  “A partner.”

“If Halliday’s right about the stone,” she murmured into his coarse lips, “we could turn back time.  Change anything we want.”  She rolled her hips again, reaching down to take his hands and put them higher on her body.  An invitation if there’d ever been one.  “The power to alter history.  Reshape the world as we see fit.”

Rego laughed.  “Don’t tell me you’re buying his bullshit.”

“I’ve fought aliens pouring out of a hole in the sky,” she said, undoing the top ties of his vest.  His was dirty underneath, like he hadn’t had the opportunity to or interest in showering in quite some time.  He smelled like sweat, not the clean kind.  For some reason, that made her think of Rogers, how he smelled before when they’d been so close.  Even covered in mud, sweat, rain, and blood, he’d smelled clean.  _Focus._ “I’m not sure what I believe anymore.  But that sort of power is worth a chance, isn’t it?”

“Is this your advice as my partner?” he asked.  His hands squeezed.

Natasha cocked her head.  “Could be.”

“I’ve already ordered the crew to take us to Cameroon.  I have a contact there who’ll be interested in offering up a plane to Egypt.”

“Little out of the way, wouldn’t you say?” she commented.

He kissed her again, more aggressively.  “I think you’re right.  Partner is probably _too_ strong a word.  Second in command.  Not permitted to question.”  His mouth was all over her face.  She resisted the urge to break his neck.  “This guy will keep it quiet for a cut.  I have a feeling SHIELD is going to be looking for me, yes?”

“Probably,” she conceded.

“Have to be careful then.  Don’t want to lose what I’ve found.”  He stood suddenly, lifting her with him, and swept their shot glasses off the table.  He laid her there, planting himself rather firmly between her legs and grabbing up the tequila bottle.  He took a long swig.  “Fly to Cairo.  Let the good professor have his chance to prove he’s right.  If he is…”  He kissed his way up her chest, reaching for the ties to the halter.  “We’re rich and powerful beyond our wildest dreams.  Someone hurt you in the past?  Kill him before he gets the chance.  Kill his mother.  Kill his ancestor.  _Erase him._ ”  She tried to push her hands into the mess of his hair, but he grabbed her wrists and held them above her head.  “And if he’s lying, we’ll kill him.  Take the rock.  Sell it.”  He bit and nipped his way down her neck.  Natasha fought not to roll her eyes.  “Buy a bigger boat.  Eh, _gatinha_?”

That was it.  Natasha lifted her thighs in a move she knew he would take as a sign for _more_ , and when he continued kissing down her body, she trapped his torso in between them, squeezing and squeezing hard.  He gasped in pain and surprise, his grip loosening for only a second, but a second was all she needed.  She twisted her hands and grabbed his wrists, restraining him.  Then she shoved Rego down further until her thighs were around his neck, and now she was truly strangling him.  His face turned red with effort as he struggled and wheezed.  He ground out something that she couldn’t understand because it was too weak and raspy.  And he writhed, but she was stronger and far more in control.  She always had been.  Eventually he ran out of breath, drool dribbling from his parted, purpling lips, and passed out on top of her.

Natasha leaned up and shoved him off.  He slumped loudly to the floor, knocking the chair over with a rattle and thud that undoubtedly alerted the men outside.  She lithely slid off to the table to her feet, grabbing his guns and the knife.  _“Chefe! Você está bem?”_   She yanked open his vest, digging around inside.  She breathed a silent sigh of relief when she found the Eye in one of the interior pockets.  She stood, sliding it into the tiny slit that passed for pockets on these ridiculous pants, and dashed to the narrow space on the wall between the door and the bunk.  When Rego didn’t respond, predictably the pirates came inside.

She slammed the door on the man’s hand where it was on the jamb before yanking it open all the way.  There were three of them, and she took them entirely by surprise.  The knife slashed through the air, finding the gut of the first man.  She kicked him back into his buddies, whirling and stabbing.  Without a single gunshot, she killed them all.

The ship swayed, but it was silent.  Still.  She stood in the empty corridor, waiting a moment to determine if anyone was coming before taking one cautious step over the fallen bodies.  A humming rattle stopped her.  That sound was obvious enough.  A phone vibrating.  It was coming from back in Rego’s room.  She lightly darted back, dropping to Rego’s unconscious form and searching his pants pockets.  She found the phone and pulled it free.  It was a text from a number she didn’t recognize.  _“Douala hangar #4”_ it read.  It must have been his contact in Cameroon.  She tried to unlock the phone so she could use it to call SHIELD, but it was thumbprint and passcode secured.  If she’d had more time and equipment, she could have easily defeated this.  As it was, she tossed it down onto his chest and stood.  Then she aimed the gun at his head.

The desire to pull the trigger was _there_.  It always was.  But an image of Rogers came unbidden, of his disapproving stare, of his _disappointment_.  _“I know what evil is when I see it.”_   She stood stock still, battling against that picture and the effect it somehow had on her.  Killing an unarmed man wouldn’t have given her pause a few days ago, and now she _couldn’t_ even though every rational part of her mind, every bit of the training ingrained into _every part of her_ , screamed that she do it.  End him for capturing her, touching her, thinking he could control her.  End him now when he was weak and incapable of stopping her.  Kill him.  Just as she had so many times in past, _she should do it._

But she couldn’t.

She lowered the gun, disgusted with herself as much as she was with wasting time.  She turned and ran, reading the old Russian signs on the bulkheads outside in the corridor to find her way out.  She went silently, a shadow in the dimly-lit corridors, fleet and powerful.  But when she reached the steps that would lead her to the deck, she stopped.

She couldn’t.  She couldn’t do this, either.

This was so damn _stupid._   Logic dictated she complete the mission: get off the _Black Hand_ , get the 084 away from the pirates, and contact SHIELD.  Send for reinforcements.  If she couldn’t steal a motor boat or feasibly reach shore, hide.  The ship was large enough that she probably could elude the pirates for a few hours, despite how outnumbered she was.  Once SHIELD arrived, rescuing Rogers would be a simple thing.  He could certainly take care of himself in the interim.  He was a super soldier, for God’s sake.  He could take a beating, withstand whatever abuse they were doling out.  She needed to protect the 084.  The mission demanded it.

But she couldn’t just _leave_ him.

And she knew why.  It wasn’t that he would have asked her to help him because she was pretty sure he wouldn’t, that he would gladly sacrifice himself to see the Eye safe in the hands of SHIELD and the mission completed.

It was that he would never have left _her_.

“Damn it,” she whispered.  She turned, leaving the stairs behind and rushing down the corridor.  “You owe me for this, Rogers.”

The _Black Hand_ was as unattractive inside as it was outside; there was rust on the interior, discoloring the metal of the walls and floors.  Paint was faded and peeling, all ugly grays and greens, marred further by weathering and dirt from years of disuse that had collected without cleaning.  She passed other bunks and storerooms, uncertain of where to go.  The seconds she spent wandering almost made her skin crawl.  She was exposed, putting herself and her directives at risk.  Acting like a goddamn fool.  She needed to find someone to ask for directions.

She ended up outside, near the starboard railing amidships.  The _Black Hand_ was cruising through calm seas at high speeds.  The air was sweet and humid, and the night was still thick and dark.  She spotted a younger guy smoking near steps that led to a higher deck, his back turned to the interior of the ship while he kept watch over the inky ocean.  Natasha crept up to him and grabbed him around the neck.  She shoved him into the railing roughly, and that was sufficient to get him to drop the rifle overboard.  Strangling him and pushing down, she hissed into his ear, “Where did they take Captain America?”  The boy gurgled, scrabbling to pull her arms away from his throat and take a breath, but she held him like steel.  He whimpered, squirming.  There was no time for this.  “Where did they take him?”

Thankfully, the pirate understood English enough to give an answer.  “Down below,” he gasped.  She knocked him out with a punch to the temple and tossed him overboard.  Her patience for sparing lives was indirectly proportionate to her need to get this over with as quickly as possible.  It didn’t take long for her to find her way down.  A narrow flight of stairs took her lower, and she was running, not wasting any time.  She needed to find Rogers and _get the hell out._   She tried to remember how this had felt before, when she’d stormed that hole in Uzbekistan to rescue Barton.  Somehow it seemed to her that her odds had been better then, that she’d been in more control of the situation.  _Find him.  Get him out.  Get out._   If she freed Rogers, their chances of escape improved, at least.  With him fighting beside her and the element of surprise on their side, they stood a chance of even commandeering the _Black Hand._   Surely the ship had a radio.  They could call SHIELD, and this whole misadventure would be over.

Silently and stealthily she made her way into the bowels of the ship.  The cruiser wasn’t terribly big, and her quick and keen senses had her picking her way through its maze-like interior with as much precision and alacrity as possible.  That pirate had probably meant the brig, which would likely be near the center of the ship, someplace difficult to escape.  Still, she didn’t know the layout of the vessel, and that was significantly slowing her down.  The corridors here were even more shadowy than they had been above, and she used that to her advantage, dancing silently through them with her gun at the ready.  Storerooms were checked.  Offices and other places.  She gave everything a cursory glance.  Once or twice pirates popped up in her way, and she hid, pressing herself flat along the bulkheads, standing in the darkness and holding her breath.  They moved on, completely unaware of her presence.  She waited until they were out of sight before continuing.  Minutes bled away, minutes she really couldn’t spare, and she was beginning to lose her patience.  Every second she spent searching for Rogers was one less she could use to secure the 084.  Still, she couldn’t make herself stop.  She couldn’t make herself admit defeat.  She couldn’t make herself leave him behind.

Finally she turned down a narrow corridor.  The red, metallic sign affixed to the bulkhead at the end of the hallway quietly proclaimed the master-at-arms’ station was to her left.  That was as close to directions to the brig as she was getting, and she raced down the way and turned.  There ahead was a larger area secured by double doors.  A pirate guarded them.  She raced toward him, much faster than he could prevent (it helped that he was dozing), and kicked him across the face.  His head snapped back into the bars behind him, knocking him out.  She fished the keys from his belt, unlocked the gate, and proceeded inside.

There were only four cells, two along either side of the short corridor.  They smelled rank, of urine and old sweat and other things about which she didn’t care to think.  And they were all empty, save one.

Rogers wasn’t in it.

Halliday was, though.  His nice clothes were rumpled.  He looked woefully unkempt and even more woefully out of his element.  He lifted his head as she approached.  When he saw who it was, he stood from the dark, dank corner of his cell and sprung toward her.  “Agent Romanoff,” he gasped.  “Do you have the Eye?”

Was this guy crazy?  Completely obsessed?  Natasha hated to think something so trite like this right now, but she was talking to a veritable Ahab chasing down his Moby Dick.  “Where’s Captain Rogers?”

He wrapped his hands around the bars of his cell.  There was a nice bruise blossoming on his jaw, and his thinning hair was all askew.  “They haven’t brought him here.”  That made Natasha’s stomach clench in dismay.  What the hell had they done to Rogers if he wasn’t here?  Pirates weren’t known for their gentility or respect of human rights.  That worry grew sharp.  She needed to find him.  “Do you have the Eye?” Halliday demanded again.  Desperation didn’t adequately describe what she saw in this man’s eyes.  “Do you?”

She released a slow breath.  “The Eye belongs in SHIELD custody.”

He read through that.  “I need it,” he moaned.  He reached a hand through the bars, curling fingers frantically clawing for her.  Clawing for the gem.  It was almost as if he was addicted, driven beyond sanity for something she – _no one_ – seemed to be able to understand.  “Please.  I need it.  I’ve devoted my life to it.  You have no idea–”

There was no time to be arguing about this.  “Professor, this jewel can’t control time.”  Halliday’s face scrunched up in petulant fury.  “ _Nothing_ can control time.  And even if it could, you have to realize that you can’t use it.  No one can.”

“I need to,” he insisted.  His voice turned throaty, a low whisper tinged with insanity.  “I need to go back and fix it.  _One thing_.I need to fix one thing.”

She was tempted to ask what, but it was moot.  “The sort of power that could come from the Eye…  You just can’t use it like that.  There’s no soul in this world that would be able to go back and change one thing.”  He shook his head emphatically in denial.  She couldn’t believe someone who was clearly so intelligent could be this naïve.  “It’s beyond dangerous.  No one can play God.”

“Using the stone would make a man _into_ a god or something close to it.  Only someone worthy of the gods can wield the stone,” Halliday argued.

“And that’s you?  _No one_ is worthy of that sort of power.  No one can change one thing and not be tempted to change _everything._ ”

“I can!”

This was like trying to make a madman see reason.  There was no sense in it.  And she was _wasting time_.  “Do you know anything about where they took Captain Rogers?” she asked again.

“You’re not listening to me!  No one is _listening_ to me!  Give me the Eye, _please_ , and I can…  I’ll change whatever you want.  Do anything you want.  Just give it to me.”

She gave up.  He was out of his mind.  After she found Rogers and got the Eye to safety, she’d send someone to rescue this guy.  She turned to run back.

But he started _screaming_.  “Come back here!  Don’t leave me here!  Bring it back!  _Give it to me!”_

_Damn it!_

She actually considered shooting him, but it was too damn late for that.  She ran, his hysterical screaming echoing through the bowels of the ship.  In a minute it would bring the wrath of the pirates down on her.  Any chance of hiding, of laying low, of finding Rogers was _gone._   She needed to get off the ship.

That wasn’t going to happen.

After jumping up the steps, she ran smack into a group of pirates coming down.  She shot one, threw the knife at another, but two more were already on her, weapons discharging.  Bullets clanked on metal, ricocheting dangerously.  Natasha leapt, getting her legs around the torso of the closet.  Atop his shoulders, she snapped his neck before jumping off the falling body to kick the man coming at her.  Her attack dropped him, but the fight was over before it began.  A company of pirates thundered down the corridor at her.  She turned to run back down the steps, but more were coming up.  She was surrounded.

Anger simmered down in the pit of her stomach.  Still she raised both guns, sweeping them over the group.  Her narrowed eyes glanced over the thugs, searching for a weakness, a place to attack.  A way out.  There wasn’t one.  The hallway was too narrow, and there were too many.  She couldn’t escape without getting shot.  “Drop the guns!” hollered one of the men.  “Do it now!”

It was pointless.  That infuriated her, the simmer bursting into a full-fledged roiling boil, but she did nothing aside from glare, grind her teeth, and let her weapons fall to the deck.  None of the pirates advanced at first, and when a scuffle from the rear of the group reached the front, Rego emerged from his men.  He was bruised, his neck ringed in red and purple, face ruddy with how close he’d come to asphyxiating.  All of his arrogance, his overly sugary, mock gentility, his flirtatiousness…  Gone.  Replaced by rage.  And there was no mistaking it.  “You bitch,” he snarled, and he stalked up to her and belted her right across the face.  Natasha let him have that blow, but the next she caught.  She shoved him away.  He held his ground, and up went his knee into her midriff.

She fell with a gasp.  “This is where I squish you, little spider,” Rego hissed, kicking her again in the belly.  Pain arced up and down her torso, and she coughed, struggling for air.  Instinctively she curled inward to protect herself.  “You had your chance!  Pathetic bitch!  _This_ is Black Widow!”

The men shouted and came closer.  Now there was fear, a small bolt of it that shot like lightning across her mind.  “You won’t break me,” she said despite that.

Rego crouched in front of her.  He shoved her onto her back and reached into her pants pocket.  Out came the Eye again.  He glanced at it once before tangling his fist in her hair and dragging her to her feet.  “This isn’t SHIELD.  We don’t break.  We _kill_.”  He shoved her to his men, and they immediately grabbed her by the hair and arms.  Natasha stiffened, struggling, but there was no point.  She was at their mercy.  Rego pocketed the Eye again and looked at Natasha with nothing but disappointment and disgust.  “Get her out of here.”

* * *

She found Rogers.  Not in the way she’d intended, of course, but at least they were going to be together.

That probably shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was.

The pirates hauled her back down below.  Every step of the way she’d anticipated they’d attack her, have their way with her, finally do the one thing that had been silently causing more and more anxiety to fester in the back of her heart.  But aside from a few uncomfortable gropes and leering stares, they hadn’t.  They’d simply dragged her at gunpoint through the very bowels of the _Black Hand_ , even lower than she’d gone before, and stopped in front of what seemed like a huge room secured by a water-tight door.  That they had opened with some effort before shoving her inside and securing it shut behind her.

It was quite a large room, taller and longer rather than wide.  It was vacuous and empty and serviced by paltry lighting.  Everything was corroded, streaked with rust and discoloration, and there was water puddled on the floor here and there.  A few huge pipes ran into the room from somewhere beyond, disappearing into the interior bulkhead.  There were two large hatches in the other bulkhead, but they were shut and heavily rusted.  Rogers sat against the curve of the wall between them.  He seemed small in this vast place, though it didn’t help that he was wrapped up into himself with his knees to his chest and his head dropped between his arms.  When he heard the door slam, he looked up.

She winced.  He was absolutely covered in bruises and slashes.  Most of the lacerations didn’t look very deep, and she figured with the serum they wouldn’t pose much of a problem, but the sheer number of them was disturbing.  Torn skin and bloody welts littered his chest and thighs, all the way down his calves and painting his arms.  A cut on his cheek wept blood down his face.  There was red in his hair, too.  He looked awful, like something out of a splatter movie.  She’d seen men beaten and tortured, and this didn’t resemble that.  “What happened?”

He grunted, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace.  His hand was over the stab wound in his side, although at this point she figured that was probably just one of many miseries.  “Gotta say that bullies nowadays are just as bad as bullies back then.”

Something ached inside her.  His voice was thin, heralding an extremely unpleasant experience.  She noticed now that he was wet, still dressed in only his underwear.  And he was shivering.  It wasn’t overly obvious, but it was there, a minute tremor that was wracking his large form.  “What did they do to you?”

“Apparently keelhauling Captain America isn’t as much of a punishment as it sounds,” he said with far more bravado than actually showed in his eyes.  Disgust made her stomach clench.  “Doesn’t work too well when your victim can hold his breath for a long time.  Took them a few passes to do any damage.”  He smiled, but that was thin, too.  Forced.  “I’m okay,” he assured, but for the first time since they’d left DC, she didn’t believe him.  Still, she didn’t call him out on it.  “What about you?”  He was horrified with the thought, and it was pretty obvious he’d been doing nothing but worrying about her and what they could have been doing to her.  His eyes quickly scanned her body and took in the new attire.  Mostly they were searching for signs of assault.  “Did they…”

“No,” she assured.  “I’m fine.”  He sighed slowly and nodded in relief.  She pulled his hand away from his side.  Now she could see the stab wound.  Half of the stitches were torn open, and it was seeping.  And now she could feel him tremble.  His skin was like ice despite the ungodly heat to which they’d been exposed for the last few days.

Clearly he didn’t like her eyes on him the way they were because he pulled his hand from her and walked toward the center of their prison.  He sniffed, gathering himself.  “I looked around already. The door’s the only way out.  I couldn’t get the hatches open.  Honestly, I was kinda afraid to try.  If we’re under water, I thought the room might flood, and that didn’t seem like a good idea.  Might be able to crawl through those pipes, but not knowing where they go or what they’re for…”  He trailed off.  She had to agree it wasn’t her first choice as a means of escape.  If either one or both of them became trapped in them, it could be disastrous.

Frustrated, she gave the room another searching glance.  “I guess we’re waiting until they come to kill us then,” she muttered.

He gingerly dropped back down to the floor, drawing his knees back up.  He looked defeated.  Raw.  Not quite together.  “Seems that way.”

Natasha bit her tongue until she tasted blood.  How could she have been so damn stupid?  If she’d _run_ , taken the 084 and found a way to get off the ship or contact SHIELD…  She sighed, disgusted with herself.  And his sorry state only made her angrier.  More frustrated.  This entire situation, this mission from the minute Fury had summoned her to his office in the Triskelion to this point, felt like a complete, unmitigated disaster.  Perhaps some of the mess had been beyond her control, but she still couldn’t help her anger.  She was Black Widow.  She was better than this, better than failure, better than allowing herself to be captured by her enemies.  Better than _emotion._   It was emotion that had landed her here.  Her frustration over losing Clint and being assigned to Rogers.  Her inability to accept that, to accept him.  Her want to dislike him, and her guilty conscience reminding her more and more that he deserved better.  She couldn’t lie to herself.

And it was emotion that made her stiffly stalk over to sit beside him, not quite close enough to touch him but closer than what was proper or professional.  “Rego’s taking the Eye and Halliday to Cairo,” she declared darkly.  Rogers turned to her, but she didn’t meet his gaze.  “Once they dock in Cameroon, they’re flying there.  And if they do, SHIELD will lose them.”

Rogers was quiet a moment.  Then he shook his head.  “Halliday’s obsessed enough to try and make the Eye work.  If he can.  If it does this crazy thing he thinks it does.”

“Yes.”

He sighed.  “Thought I’d seen it all already,” he grumbled.  “A rock that can turn back time.  Gonna owe Fury another ten bucks.”

She didn’t know what drove her to say what she did next.  She rarely admitted fault because she was mostly incapable of admitting guilt.  But she admitted it to him, like there was this inexorable need to confess and explain herself.  It had never been there before.  Clint understood her so well that she rarely had to justify anything to him.  With Rogers, she felt like she was being held to higher standards.  He was Captain America.  He didn’t condone murder, looked down upon using sex like a weapon, stood for the complete opposite of everything in which she believed.  Oddly enough, she wanted him to understand that.  And she wanted him to know this was _his_ fault.  It was petty and childish, but she did.  “I had the Eye.  I could have run.  Should have run.  Ended the damn mission.”  Now she did look at him.  “But I didn’t because I made myself come back _for you_.”

He blinked.  “You threw away a chance to escape to save me?”

Suddenly unable to stand being next to him, she pushed herself to her feet.  Being useless and trapped was unbearable.  And hearing him ask that with incredulity in his voice made it so much worse.  “What?” she returned snidely.  “You’re not impressed?”

“I just…  You should’ve–”

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Yes, you were.  You’re a horrible liar.”  He bristled with the insult, even if it was true.  Natasha turned away.  “I had to.  You would’ve done the same for me.”

He shook his head, not understanding.  “I don’t get you.  Not any part of you.  You got mad at me for compromising the mission to save you before.  And now you’re mad at me because you did the same thing?  I’m lost.”

“No shit.”

That made him angry.  “You’re a real piece of work, Romanoff.”

“Likewise, Rogers.”

And that made him angrier.  His jaw muscles flexed as he worked his teeth together.  Somewhere during all of this, the ship had stopped swaying.  It was suddenly very silent as he struggled to hang onto his patience.  “You know,” he said quietly, lowly, calmly in control, “back in the war when things went south, we always dealt with it.  And they went south a lot.  Had a mission kinda like this one once.  We went out – the Howling Commandos and me – out to bring back samples of HYDRA weaponry for Howard Stark to examine.  We didn’t know what we were dealing with back then, didn’t know about the Tesseract or where all this power the Nazis had was coming from, so it was real important we got the samples back to HQ.  Bucky…  He was my best friend from home.  We ended up lost because of a bad skirmish, separated from everyone else in the heart of enemy territory.  It was the middle of January, freezing cold and snowing to beat the band.  Couldn’t tell up from down out there.  We were walking in circles for days.  And HYDRA was on us, trying to take us out and reclaim the guns we’d stolen.  It was a damn mess, and I thought for sure we were going to die.”

“What’s your point?” she asked tiredly.  She really wasn’t in the mood for an old war story.

His eyes flashed, but he kept his temper.  “My point is that the only reason we didn’t die was because we didn’t let ourselves.”  She gave him a wan look, like she couldn’t believe he was whittling all of this disaster down to a pep talk with a nice, clean “moral of the story” moment.  “I didn’t let him die.  He didn’t let me.  We didn’t give up.  We dealt with it.  We dealt with it _together._   And we got the weapons to Stark.”

“Rogers–”

“It doesn’t matter what went wrong at this point.  We need to work through it, not give up.”

“Believe it or not, this isn’t my first life-or-death situation.  I know that.  You don’t need to tell me.”

He sighed.  She could see him fraying underneath Captain America.  At least, she thought she could.  It took him a moment to gather himself.  “I know you do.  But sometimes we need to hear what we already know.”  He gave her a faint smile.  “You know?” 

She did know.  She did.  But hearing him say it…  Surprisingly the pulsing knot of anger inside, of feeling pathetically out of her element, loosened ever so slightly.  Loosened enough for her to think.  He exhaled slowly, gingerly, trying to sit up a bit.  “I trust you enough to know we can get out of this,” he added.  “Together.”  His smile was wider, a little more genuine.  “And thanks.  I appreciate you not leaving me here.  Even if it ended up like this.”

She didn’t know how to take that.  But she felt better for it because she knew he was serious.  “You’re welcome.”

He nodded, grunted, closed his eyes but not because he was tired.  He was trying to hold himself together.  She was more and more certain of that.  “So now you know I’m not always the best with plans.  I’m actually pretty bad about flying by the seat of my pants sometimes.  Your rescue attempt, your call.”  This was a feeble attempt at teasing her.  He was looking increasingly rattled.  Something wasn’t right.  “How do you want to get us out of this?  Because it seems to me our 084 is about to be sold or lost in time or who the hell knows what and we’re trapped in an iron box.”

There was a low hum.  Then an equally low rattle.  Natasha looked around wildly.  Behind her, Rogers clambered to his feet.  “What’s happening?” he softly asked, the meager amount of color that had come to his cheeks draining.

Then she understood.  The room’s location at the bottom of the ship.  How big and empty it was.  The size.  The corrosion.  The pipes.  “This isn’t an iron box,” she murmured.  Horror left her cold and reeling.  “It’s an iron _tank._ ”

Rogers’ face went utterly lax in horrified understanding.

A ballast tank.

Water suddenly _poured_ into the room from the massive pipes, pumped in hundreds of gallons at a time, flooding and flooding and rising.  They were trapped.

They were going to drown.

They needed to get out of there _now._

The water was up to her shins in a matter of seconds, hot and threatening.  The roar of it tumbling from the pipes was deafening, echoing through the tank.  In a matter of minutes, they’d be dead.  Natasha looked around frantically, searching the bulkheads for anything, for another door or a hatch or some possible hope for escape.  There was nothing.  Why would there be?  A ballast tank was meant to flood.  Frustrated, she sloshed through the water toward the door, grabbing at it and pulling.  Nothing.  It was water-tight, air-tight, and impossibly heavy.  “What do we do?” she cried, eyes wide and heart pounding.  He didn’t answer.  Her mind was racing.  She didn’t know much about this sort of system.  Water could be pumped into a ship and stored in tanks like this.  That lowered the vessel’s center of gravity, which added stability.  The pumps could be used to drain the tank, but they weren’t in this room so they were inaccessible.  No, their only hope of getting out of there lay with him forcing one of those hatches open.  There were probably emergency drains of some sort.  That was their only shot.

The water was up to her thighs.  “Rogers, you have to–”

She turned around and her voice died in her throat.  Rogers was down on his knees in the water, eyes wide, gasping like he couldn’t breathe.  Shock coursed over her, and she immediately went back to him, worried he’d been hurt worse than she’d previously noticed.  But he wasn’t injured.  He was _shaking._ Shaking hard, so much so that it seemed like he was completely coming apart.  That minute tremor from before had seemingly exploded into a full-body shiver that looked miserable and painful.  There was terror in his eyes, his face contorted with it.  Worse than that, though, was the fact that his eyes were glazed.  Distant.  He wasn’t there, not fully.  Confused and more than concerned, she went to him.  “Rogers.  Rogers!”  He gasped like he’d run farther and faster than even he was capable of running, winded in a deep, agonizing way.  “Rogers!  What’s the matter?  What’s wrong with you?”

“There’s no time,” he whispered.  He was staring ahead, staring at the water that was now up to his waist.

“No shit, there’s no time!  We need to get one of those drains open!”

It was like he hadn’t heard her, like she wasn’t there in front of him.  “No time.  Gotta… gotta put her in the water.  I can’t let them…  I can’t…  Moving too fast.  Gotta put her in the water.”

 _Oh, God._   Natasha’s heart pounded in miserable realization.  He wasn’t injured.  And he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t see her, because he _wasn’t there._   The enclosed metal space.  The water pouring into it.  He wasn’t with her.  He was back seventy years ago.  He was flying a plane into the Arctic.  He was sacrificing himself to stop HYDRA.

He was having a flashback to the crash that had killed him.

Obviously he’d been awake when he’d put the _Valkyrie_ into the ice shelf.  He’d been awake when he’d drowned, when he’d been frozen alive.  Natasha couldn’t fathom that, what that _meant_ even though the awful evidence of it was crumbling apart right in front of her wide eyes at the worst time imaginable.  He’d been awake as he’d died and this was triggering memories of the experience that were so severe that they were simply overwhelming him.

This was bad.

Natasha quickly gathered herself, shoving her emotions down deep and staggering through the water to get to him.  “Rogers,” she gasped, “you need to focus on me.  Focus and listen to me.”

Clearly he wasn’t.  He couldn’t.  He squeezed his eyes shut, choking out a sob.  “I can’t…  My choice…  My choice…  My…”

He kept mumbling that, over and over again.  She didn’t know who he was talking to.  Her?  Someone from back then?  “It’s 2012,” she said, forcing herself to be calm and steady even as the water climbed up her body.  It was high enough now that it was trying to lift her feet from the floor.  It was dragging him up as well.  He was absolutely terrified.  “It’s 2012, not 1945.  You woke up in the future.  SHIELD found you.”  He was shivering so violently that she feared he was actually seizing.  “It’s not real.  What you’re seeing and feeling.  It’s not real!”

“It’s so cold,” he cried.

“It’s not real.  Listen to me!  Think.  It’s not real.”  He shook his head, sputtering in the water, practically hyperventilating.  She had to get through to him.  She had to.  Quickly.  The water was up to her chest.  There was a good fifteen feet between them and the top of the tank, but with the rate the tank was filling, it would be at capacity in a matter of minutes.

She didn’t let herself panic.  She wasn’t prone to it, had had the urge to lose control and succumb to fear curtailed by the Red Room ages ago.  She needed to be calm to get through to him.  She chanced putting her hands on his shoulders.  He _felt_ like ice, rigid and shivering.  He was breathing in harsh, weak pants.  “Rogers, it’s Romanoff.  You need to listen to me now.  Listen.”

“Cold,” he whispered.

“It’s not cold.  You’re _not back there._   Listen to me.  Get out of your head and focus.  Listen.”  The water lifted her off the floor.  She kicked in surprise, jolting.  He jolted more.  Suddenly the man who’d swum a hundred miles through the ocean at night with her as dead weight in his arms like it was _nothing_ couldn’t even tread water.  His actions were sloppy, disjointed, as if he was succumbing to hypothermia.  Freezing to death.  In his mind, he was.  “Listen to me!  You need to listen now or we’re going to die in here.  Do you understand me?”

“…can’t die like this.”

“You won’t,” she assured.  “But you have to help me.  You need to get the drain open.  Rogers!”  She was losing him.  His eyes closed and he sank into the water, the panic attack dropping him like a lead weight.  She wasn’t going to let him let go.  If he lost it, they were both going to die.  She drew a quick breath and went down with him, snatching his arms and pulling him back up.  He sputtered when he broke the surface, gasping and choking.  Another low rumble vibrated the tank, and the lights dimmed to almost nothing.  They were running out of time.

Natasha gathered her wits.  “Come on,” she said firmly.  She swam, pulling him with her to the bulkhead where the drains were.  They were feet beneath them now.  The ceiling was getting closer and closer.  “The drains are right below us.  I’m going to go down there with you, and we are going to pull one open.”  _If we can.  Please let this work._   “Can you do that?”

He still wasn’t with her.  He was looking right at her now, but he wasn’t seeing her.  Not her.  “I missed it.”

She didn’t understand.  “Missed what?”

“Our date.”  She couldn’t tell if he was crying.  His bruised face was slick and white as a ghost, and his eyes were brightly blue and shattered.  “I missed our date.  So sorry.”  His expression crumpled.  “I’m so sorry!”

Natasha closed her eyes, her heart sinking in pain.  In pain for him.  It almost overcame her, to feel so acutely for someone else.  To feel grief, to _hurt_ , for someone else like this.  She didn’t know what to do, how to help him, how to bring him out of it.  And she needed to.  So she followed her instincts, instincts she didn’t know she had, because there was nothing else.  She cupped his face and pulled him closer.  “Steve,” she said softly.  He heard her despite the racket of the ocean filling the tank, jerking a little in her grasp.  “Steve, look at me.  Look at me.  Please.”  He couldn’t at first, wasting precious seconds.  She held his face and never broke eye contact, waiting as patiently as she could for him to find her.  He did.  He did, and she didn’t let him go.  “There’s no ice, no plane.  You’re not back there.”

He gasped a sob.  “S’cold.”

“No.”  She pressed herself to him, hoping the contact would ground him.  If the warmth of the water couldn’t penetrate the memories torturing him, maybe the heat of her body could.  Never once did she look away from his eyes.  “No, it’s not.  I promise you it’s not.  You’re going to take a deep breath.  A nice, deep breath.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” she said.  “We’re going to do it together.  We’re going to do this together, just like you said.  I won’t let you die.  You won’t let me die.  We’ll deal with it together.”  He was shivering so hard it was shaking them both.  The water was nearly to the top of the tank.  She didn’t let any of that faze her.  If she lost him now…  “I’m with you.  Come on.  We can do this.  Deep breath.”

He took one.  One deep breath.  He didn’t hold it, couldn’t hold it.  She didn’t look away, bringing his face close to hers even as the water carried them higher and higher.  She raised an arm to push against the top of the tank and keep them from hitting their heads.  “Another.  Come on.”  He inhaled again of what little air was remaining.  And again.  Slowly.  Deeply.  She saw it now.  He was emerging from the panic attack and re-engaging with reality.  His eyes _focused_.  “Alright.  Now a really deep one and hold it.  We’re going to dive down, okay?  You and me together.  I’m not letting you go.  You don’t let go of me.  We’ll swim down, grab the hatch, and pull it open.  It’s going to dump us right into the ocean outside, okay?”  _I hope._ “Okay?  Are you ready?”

The idea of going down into the blackness of the water clearly terrified him.  She could see it, and he faltered, closing his eyes and breathing quickly again.  “No, eyes on me.  _Look_ at me.  Come on.  We can do this.”  There was barely a foot left.  Water was splashing into her mouth every time she spoke.  But she didn’t panic.  She couldn’t now.  “Steve, no matter what happens, you won’t be alone.  Do you hear me?  You won’t be alone.”

His gaze snapped right to her.  She could have broken from relief right then and there, but there was no time.  She tipped her head back to find air to keep breathing.  Fumbling for a second, she took his hand under the water and wove their fingers together.  She held tight, squeezing.  He squeezed back.  “Deep breath on three.  One.  Two.  Three!”

She took as deep a breath as she could.  So did he.  Then they dove.  She held tight to him, dragging him down with her under the water.  The tank was full so the rumbling of the pumps stopped.  It was eerily quiet.  Still.  So dark that it was nearly impossible to see the bulkhead, let alone the hatch.  Her memory was sharp, though, and it guided her as she kicked downward.  He wasn’t putting much effort into swimming at first.  When he saw the hatch, however, he seemed to focus again, to realize what she’d been saying, what she wanted him to do.  Still grasping her tightly, he propelled himself to it.  It was secured by a wheel, as most of the doors and hatches on the ship were.  He grasped that and tried to turn it.  It wouldn’t budge, so corroded and rusted that it was simply locked into place.  Natasha watched him struggle, watched the muscles of his arms and back bulge and twist as he worked.  Nothing.  A few bubbles of air popped from his mouth, and for a moment she feared he was giving up.

He wasn’t.  He planted his feet against the hatch for leverage and tried again.  The tendons in his hands were taut, his neck rigid as he put all of his considerable strength into it.  For a moment she feared he’d simply break it, given the amount of power he was using and how badly damaged the hatch was.  However, its integrity didn’t fail, and the wheel turned.  It was hardly anything, maybe half an inch, but it sent hope rushing through Natasha.  Despite the burning in her lungs, she swam closer, planting her feet beside his and grasping the wheel.  Their plan was unspoken, a shared glance and a nod, and they turned it together.  She was fairly certain what she was contributing wasn’t much compared to him, but it was just enough to turn the wheel another half an inch.  Then another.  More and more.  It got easier as the locking mechanism loosened.  After many long seconds spent hoping and trying not to think about their chances or feel the aching weight of oxygen deprivation, the wheel was turned as far as it could be.

The locks disengaged with a clank that sounded distant and dull.  He grabbed the hatch and pulled.  It didn’t open, but the wheel tore right off the surface.  He gave a grunt of surprise, reeling back in the water before letting it go.  Grabbing the hatch with both hands, he pulled.  Again the effort he was putting into it was striking.  She helped.  Together they were able to yank it open.

Outside it was pitch black.  Natasha peered into the darkness.  There was no choice but to go out and pray this was indeed the ocean.  She passed by the thickness of the bulkhead, swimming through the hatch.  There was nothing in front of her that she could see.  Nothing around her aside from more water.  She looked up.  There.  It was faint, but it was most definitely a light.  She whirled and reached back for him.

He wasn’t there.

Cold panic rushed over Natasha for a second but only that.  She kicked her way back inside the tank.  He was there, staring at the open hatch with wide, frightened eyes.  He didn’t see her.  He was lost.  He was lost because she’d let him go.

 _No._ She snatched his wrist and he startled bad enough to gasp and choke, obviously inhaling a huge mouthful of water before he remembered where he was and what was happening.  He floundered, struggling weakly, and she simply moved.  She tugged him through the hole, mindful of the ragged edges of the steel where they’d ripped the hatch open.  Wrapping her arms around his chest, she quickly located that blurry, faint light so far above and kicked upward.  He was limp against her, heavy and useless.  Her body was throbbing, her lungs heavy, hard weights in her chest that threatened to drag her down.  She was stronger.  Up she went, kicking with all her might.  She _knew_ the edges of her vision were blackening despite the sable abyss around her, but she ignored it and fought hard for them both.

Finally she broke the surface.  She sucked in a great shuddering breath, desperate for air.  Roughly she pulled him out of the water against her, making certain his head was free.  For a moment she feared he wasn’t breathing, but he was.  He started gasping, coughing violently with half-lidded eyes and agony splayed all over his face.  He clung to her.  Normally that would have made her uncomfortable, but she was more concerned with him.  Uncertainly she wrapped her arms around him.  He buried his face into her shoulder.  She didn’t know if he knew where he was, what had happened, who she was…  She didn’t know if he was okay.  “Are you alright?”

He made some aborted motion with his head, but she couldn’t tell if he was shaking it or nodding.  They bobbed in the water for what felt like a long time, both of them reeling from what had just happened and catching their breaths.  Then she felt his fingertips digging into the flesh of her back.  “Romanoff,” he hoarsely said.

“Yeah,” she murmured in relief.  _Thank God._   “Yeah, Rogers.”

“Tell me that – that we’re not out in the – in the middle of the o-ocean,” he whispered, voice breaking and teeth chattering.  “’Cause I don’t… don’t think I can swim a hundred m-miles this – this time.”

She couldn’t help a little laugh or the relief pounding hot in her veins.  She held him just a bit tighter, sliding her hand over his back in a surprisingly natural act of comfort.  He relaxed against her, shivering yet but not so violently.

Then she looked around and realized where they were.  She pulled him closer to the ship, into the shadows, and lowered her voice to a whisper against his ear.  “We’re not in the middle of the ocean.”  He shuddered in relief.  “But do you think you can swim a little?  It’s not far.”

Now he did nod.  “Sh-sure.”

“Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gatinha_ – kitten (slang for sexy woman)  
>  _Saúde._ – Cheers.  
>  _Chefe! Você está bem?_ – Boss! Are you okay?


	8. Chapter 8

Steve was pulling himself together admirably.  Considering what he’d just gone through, that was fairly remarkable.  Natasha watched him gather his composure as though it was a measurable process, one he was taking faster than he probably should have.  She’d seen other agents go down with flashbacks and panic attacks before.  It was a rare thing, but in their line of work, it was to be expected.  Usually after an episode like this, medical would step in, prescribing drugs and therapy and downtime.  They didn’t have that luxury.  All they had was his own strength and will to recover.

She had to respect just how much strength and will he had, now more than ever.

Their luck was changing at least (well, changing from completely horrible to only marginally horrible).  Rego had apparently decided to flood the _Black Hand’s_ ballast tanks after pulling into the harbor in Cameroon.  The _Black Hand_ was moored at a rusty, decrepit excuse for a dock.  Dawn was coming if the faint light in the eastern sky was any indication, but it was still black enough for the two of them to hide under the dock, collect themselves, and gauge the situation.  Rego and a great deal of his men were disembarking the _Black Hand_ just as Natasha and Steve took cover.  Natasha was entirely certain they hadn’t been spotted, especially given the fact that Rego wasn’t even looking, secure in his belief that he’d killed his prisoners.  Loud shouting in Portuguese filled the humid air as the pirate captain directed his men to bring Halliday and their gear toward the small buildings ashore.  Her vantage turned poor at that point, so she waited and listened until the sound of car and truck engines firing up roared through the tiny excuse for a port.  Once they were gone, she chanced swimming out from beneath the concealing wood and rusty metal of the dock.  “Come on,” she whispered.

Steve was still shaking, but he managed to swim out from under the dock after her.  His movements were jerky and disjointed.  That bothered her, but she didn’t show it.  “Give me a boost?” she asked.  He clumsily did so, cupping his hands beneath the surface of the water so she could plant her foot in them.  He lifted her high enough for her to reach the edge of the dock.  After hauling herself up, she leaned down to him, taking his hand and helping him climb.  He was slower to do that, and he was slower to get to his feet after he made it up.  Natasha afforded him a moment, taking stock of their surroundings.  The dock seemed deserted.  Still, she feared there might be men patrolling the deck of the _Black Hand,_ so they needed to get to cover.  “Let’s go.”

“Where?” he whispered, allowing her to help him get to his feet.  His knees seemed to bend beneath him before he got better control of himself.

“Back aboard.  Rego took most of his crew with him.  And they were armed.”  That sounded like the pirate captain was expecting trouble, which was neither here nor there at the moment.  It just meant returning to the ship was likely to be easier than it normally would have been and hence worth the risk.  They needed guns and supplies.  They needed to try and contact SHIELD.  Quickly and quietly she ran down the dock to the gangway.  He followed, barely a ghost of his normal grace and alacrity clinging to his movements.  She paused at the gangway, hiding in the shadows and listening.  It was completely silent save for the waves lapping against the ship’s hull and the dock.  With a curt nod to him, they proceeded up the gangway.

The ship was as empty as she suspected.  If the _Black Hand_ had a radio (and she hoped it did), they’d likely find it on the bridge.  She glanced over her shoulder at Steve.  He was leaning against the railing that ran the length of the deck, shivering with his eyes closed.  She reached for his wrist, and he jolted at her touch.  She smiled disarmingly.  “You with me?”  He just stared at her, like he didn’t recognize her or understand what she was asking.  Then he gave a halting nod.  “Hey, at least they can remember today as the day they almost killed Captain America.”  He looked even more dazed and confused, if that was possible.  “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you.”

He managed a ghost of a smile.  She thought it might have been for her benefit, because he looked absolutely pathetic.  Drenched and as white as a ghost under all the bruises and slashes.  “N-No.”

“It’s from a movie,” she supplied as she looked around carefully again.  “ _Pirates of the Caribbean._   Thought it was appropriate.”

“Shockingly I – I haven’t s-seen it.”

“You must be feeling a little bit better if you’re back to being a smart ass,” she commented quietly.  Their way looked clear.  Carefully she took his hand.  “Stay close to me.”

They ran down the deck, keeping to the shadows as much as possible as they slipped toward the forward sections of the ship.  Once they couldn’t go any further, they headed into the interior.  The bridge was probably right above them now.  Natasha followed the red signs and located the stairs that would lead them up.  At any minute it felt like their fortunes would turn foul again, that they’d run into resistance and end up in trouble.  But they didn’t.  At the top of the steps to the higher decks, the ship opened up again.  Natasha heard gruff laughing.  She paused at the corner of the end of a corridor.  There were definitely a few guys out there, and it sounded like they were messing around with something.  Something that landed on the deck with a clank and a familiar hum.  Pushing Rogers against the wall behind her, she peered around the end of the bulkhead.

_Seriously?_

Three pirates were drinking, smoking, and playing goddamn _frisbee_ with Captain America’s shield.  She didn’t know whether to laugh at the stupidity of it all or thank their lucky stars.  She glanced over her shoulder at Steve, gesturing for him to stay.  He closed his eyes again, swallowing thickly as though he felt sick before nodding.  Then she crept up from behind on the idiot who was smoking and watching the other two fool around.  She tapped him on the shoulder.  “Hey there, sailor.”  The minute he turned, his face went lax in shock and his cigarette dropped from slack lips.  He never had a chance to do anything else, though.  She punched him in the neck, sending him sprawling.  Then she charged the man who had Steve’s shield clenched in his grubby fingers.  “I’ll take that.”  Grabbing the edge of the shield, she yanked the huge brute forward, twisting around and slamming him with all her strength into the wall behind them.  He hit with a crunch, his nose exploding with a gush of red, and she wrenched the shield away before driving its center into the pirate’s head, knocking him out cold.  She heard the sound of the last man fumbling for his gun, and she was on him instantly, whirling around to bat the weapon away.  The pirate’s filthy face was white as he backpedaled, but it was no use.  One mighty smack with the shield had him pitching over the railing and down into the water below.

Natasha turned back to Steve.  He was watching her with wide eyes.  She chanced a smile, heading back toward him.  “Not bad, fighting with this,” she said softly, sliding her arm from the straps.  She handed it to him, and he took it hesitantly with a mixture of relief and surprise splayed across his ashen face.  “I can see why you like it.”

He recovered enough to nod.  “Thanks.”

She went back to the huge guy who was sprawled against the wall.  He was bulkier than Rogers and maybe a little shorter, but it was better than nothing, she supposed.  She knelt and pulled the guy’s boots off.  Undressing him wasn’t too pleasant a task, but she was quick and methodical.  Gathering up the clothes, she handed them to Steve.  “As much as I don’t mind the view,” she said with a coy smile, “you’ll be warmer with something on.”  Then she scooped up the guns.  “Come on.”

She led him quickly upward toward the bridge.  There was one guy guarding the door, who she shot without preamble.  She lugged the body out of the way, opened the door to the bridge, and ushered Steve inside before closing it softly.

The bridge was a fairly small room.  There was a central console beneath wide but salt-encrusted windows, and it was covered in controls.  The buttons and levers looked decades old and antiquated.  Everything was dark and shut down aside from the ship’s lights.  Her quick eyes devoured the layout, and she gritted her teeth when she saw the monitors for the ballast tanks.  The little bulbs were lit to indicate the tanks were full.  _Bastard_ , she thought of Rego.

The sound of Rogers’ shield hitting the floor actually startled her, and she turned quickly.  But he was alright, working on trying to get the confiscated black jeans up his legs.  Considering how the fabric was catching on his wet, torn skin, she would have thought he’d be struggling with the pain.  He wasn’t really, but his eyes distant and clouded like he was numb.  Simply not processing.  Not feeling.  Concern that was hot and true went through her.  What she’d seen, his private hell ripped open and laid bare before her…  She was still reeling from it a little.  She didn’t want to think about it because it was no business of hers.  And she could only imagine how he felt, how exposed and vulnerable he was.  Broken down.  Weak.  _Ashamed._

She realized she was staring.  He realized it, too, and his eyes finally focused on her.  A hard glint came to them, not defensive per se, but suddenly sharp with recognition of the enormity of what had just occurred between them.  His walls, whatever barriers and masks he had to protect himself, had been utterly ripped down.  The two of them were hardly teammates.  They weren’t partners.  They weren’t friends.  They were nothing to each other than two people who’d been unfortunate enough to be trapped in this ordeal together, and she’d inexplicably seen a part of him that probably _no one_ else had seen.  She didn’t know how she felt about that.  Obviously neither did he, and this awkward pain borne from that inescapable fact was between them now.

She knew she should have been angry.  Not with him, perhaps, but with _everyone else_.  Were Fury and all of SHIELD’s doctors and therapists just that damn _stupid_ to send a soldier with clear PTSD back out into the field so soon?  Maybe he was Captain America, but he deserved a chance to recover from the war that, for him, had ended only a month ago (and ended with his death no less).  Had nobody realized how much he was suffering?  Or maybe she’d been wrong all along.  Steve Rogers _was_ that good of an actor.  He was damn proficient at hiding how badly he was hurting, probably even from himself.  She wondered if anyone could blame him.  What else was he supposed to do?  Fall down?  Let it consume him?  _Soldier on_.  And that was what he was doing right before her eyes.  Coping.  Pulling himself together _admirably_.  She remembered how disdainful he’d been when he’d said that before.  Bitter.  The heat of an ashamed, angry blush reddened his previously pale face, quickly spreading down his neck and chest.  The color was welcomed at least, though his hands were still shaking so bad he was having a hard time with the fly of the pants, fumbling in frustration and embarrassment.  She wasn’t meant to see this.  _None of it._   Something was so inherently wrong about seeing him being reduced to this, about seeing Captain America so wrecked.  Not even Captain America.  It was _wrong_ to stand and do nothing while Steve Rogers was hurting _._ And she couldn’t bear just watching any more.  “Here.  Let me.”

He stiffened at the intimate suggestion, staring at her like a proverbial deer in headlights, but he dropped his hands from his waist.  She got down on her knees in front of him, her fingers surprisingly uncertain as she buttoned the jeans and zipped them up.  She pulled the belt as tight as she could around his waist before securing it and then tying the excess around itself to keep it taut and cinched.  He jerked, watching her in confusion mixed with something she wouldn’t let herself see.  “Romanoff, I–”

“Are you okay?”  The question came from nowhere.  It was a logical thing to ask.  Whatever happened next, she needed to be certain he was alright.  Hale and healthy enough to fight for practical reasons.  However, that wasn’t why she was asking, and she knew it.

He stared down at her like he still couldn’t quite see her.  His broken words filled her head in the silence.  _“I missed our date.  I’m so sorry.”_   He seemed to hear them, too, and that awkward pain became so acute that he took a shuffling step away from her.  He grabbed the shirt.  “Yeah,” he said softly.  “I – I’m okay.  Thanks to you.”

It was hardly anything.  A few words from a traumatized soldier.  Still, it seemed like so much more coming from him, and it left her aching in a way she didn’t understand.  He stuffed his arms through the shirt and pulled it over his head, hiding his multitude of injuries.  He ran a hand roughly through his hair, messing it up even more.  The uncomfortable silence that followed was punctuated by a few long, deep breaths.  Even though he was somewhat turned from her, she could see him close his eyes, see his jaw clench, his muscles tightening with returning power.  Collecting himself.  Coping.  Before her very eyes, he was putting himself back together.  He reached for his shield.  The seemingly unending shaking just stopped, and he was as still as a statue.  “I’m sorry.”  His voice was still rough, hoarse from the trauma of what had happened, but she heard the shadow of Captain America’s commanding tone creeping back into his words.  “I just…  I lost it.”

She rose to her full height.  “You don’t need to apologize,” she said.  He didn’t seem sure.  She was.  This was the first thing of which she felt _absolutely certain_ since Fury had told her he was reassigning her.  “It’s alright.”

He sighed.  “It just… took me back.”  Battling that, battling everything about it, he drew a deep breath.  “I owe you.”

She’d said that to him before when he’d rescued her from the sinking quinjet.  In fact, it had almost become this game over the last couple of days.  However, this felt to be more.  More than just her getting him through the flashback, grounding him so that they could escape the tank.  More than the physical act of saving someone’s life, of taking a hit to spare another or pulling a teammate from the line of fire.  This was much more, and they both knew it.  “It’s okay,” she assured.

He swallowed and nodded.  “It’s not just that.  I…”  He trailed off, trying to find the words.  “I trust you now.”  His voice was soft, honest.  Heartfelt.  She wanted to tell him no, to stop, that he didn’t _know_ her, not really, so he couldn’t trust her so simply.  He couldn’t trust her because he was too naïve and it was too dangerous.  Too frightening.  She wasn’t someone anyone could trust.  She was Black Widow.  He didn’t know who that was.  Who she was.  He never would.  Nobody knew who she was. 

But she didn’t tell him any of that.  She didn’t understand it, but she felt so warm, warm and honored.  He was alone in this time, had lost everything and everyone…  And he trusted _her._   But whispering in the back of her mind was the alarming fact that she didn’t know what to do with that.  She didn’t know if she even wanted it.  Suddenly she felt exposed, stripped bare by the openness of his eyes.  His earnestness and honesty.  His _faith._

He didn’t seem to realize the enormity of what he’d said.  Of course he wouldn’t; how could he?  Things were easy for him, easy camaraderie and easy loyalty, and she hid everything from everyone.  She was too stricken to fully process what he said next, too, even though it was unfathomably worse.  “And if it…  You know, if it’s ever the other way around, and it’s down to me to stand between you and your past…”  He smiled.  “You can trust me to do it.”

That was too much.  Up came the mask, a flippant one.  “Now’s not the time to be making promises you can’t keep, Rogers.”  She smiled thinly.  She didn’t want him to see her face, to see her eyes betray her façade, so she turned and headed to the console.  She wasn’t going to let this pierce her heart.  Never.  She was Black Widow, and Black Widow didn’t feel.

So she focused on the mission.  “Let’s see if I can figure out how to work this old piece of crap…”  She flipped a few switches on the radio.  It really was ancient and as poorly maintained as everything else on this ship, but much to her satisfaction it turned on, and a burst of static came over the crusty speakers.  She found the analog dials for the frequencies and rotated them until she was on one for the SHIELD station in Kenya.  It was pretty far, so hopefully she could get through.  She grabbed the receiver of the radio and held down the talk button.  “SHIELD eight-four-one, this is Agent Natasha Romanoff.  Do you copy?”

Nothing but static answered.  Natasha grimaced in frustration.  The system was so ancient that she didn’t even know where to begin.  She was more than proficient with hacking but not so much with electrical engineering.  She had no idea how to boost the power to increase the signal range.  “SHIELD eight-four-one, this is Agent Romanoff.  Come in please.”  There was still no response, but she wasn’t ready to admit defeat.  She looked over her shoulder at him.  He’d tiredly perched himself on a small rolling chair.  His composure was eroding a bit again, his shoulders slumped and his body bent.  “Once I get through, I’m going to call for extraction.  Get you a med-evac.”

He was pained enough to not argue.  At least, not at first.  “What are you going to do?”

Natasha went back to the radio.  “Go after them.  SHIELD eight-one-four, come in.  This is Agent Romanoff.  We need immediate evac and backup.”

“I’m not running from a fight,” he said lowly, and that was more like him.  There was life in his voice.  Conviction.  It wasn’t as strong as it had been before, but it was there.  “Never have.  Never will.”

“Rogers–”

The radio suddenly cracked to life.  “Agent Romanoff, this is SHIELD outpost eight-four-one.”  It was a man’s voice, choppy with interference, but the signal was strong and steady.  “We read you.  What’s your situation, over?”

Even though it never reached her face or voice, Natasha’s relief was pretty substantial.  “We need immediate backup.  We are outnumbered against hostile pirates, and the item we were sent to retrieve is still in their hands.”

“What is your location?”

“Douala, Cameroon.  The pirates are planning on flying an 084 that is possibly extremely dangerous to Cairo.  We _need_ immediate backup.  Air support.”

There was a pause, and for a moment, Natasha feared they’d lost contact.  But the SHIELD agent’s accented tone returned.  “We have no capacity to provide air support.”  Natasha’s stomach knotted itself in dismay.  She gritted her teeth.  “The helicarrier is over the Arabian Sea.  We’re contacting them, but be advised: it may take more than thirty minutes for support to become available.”

“Negative.  By that time the 084 will be out of reach,” Natasha returned tautly.

“We’ll do all we can,” the man responded. 

 _Damn it._ “Copy that,” she answered grimly.

“What are your intentions, over?”

She heard Steve stand, and she looked at him again.  Any thought that this mission was ending here and now for him utterly vanished.  His posture was tall and strong.  He was holding his shield tightly.  And his haggard face was fixed into a determined frown, those bright, blue eyes narrowed and firm.  “Tell them we’re in pursuit.”

* * *

They grabbed every gun they could find.  Then they left the _Black Hand._   Dawn was nearly upon them, those very early hours of the day where night was not quite gone but morning was not quite there yet, either.  Natasha spotted an old pick-up truck in a shed not far from the dock.  She hotwired it while Steve loaded their gear in the back.  The engine roared to life.  Satisfied, she revved it a few times as he slid into the passenger’s seat.  He might have been in pain, but it was hard to tell now.  His jaw was set and he was obstinate, eager to finish this.  She waited for his nod, and when he gave it, they were off.

She sped down the dirt road, using a GPS she’d stolen from the bridge of the _Black Hand_ to guide them toward the airport.  Steve was silent, face grave, eyes distant.  For maybe the first time since they’d left DC, she couldn’t read him.  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.  That unnerved her for some reason, and it wasn’t just because it deprived her of the power over him to which she’d quickly become accustomed.  This odd sense of compassion was percolating inside her.  She didn’t want to address it.  She wasn’t going to.  There wasn’t time.  The dirt road turned to asphalt, tires spitting the last pebbles loudly behind them as she careened away from the port toward the city.  According to the GPS, the airport was only fifteen minutes away.  Fifteen minutes Rego would hopefully spend coercing his contact, haggling over the price of whatever transportation he was trying to buy, arguing and wasting time…

They were not going to lose the 084.  _It’s not happening._

Through the city they raced.  She’d been many places in the world, but this was not one of them so she was relying heavily on the GPS to keep her on the right path.  She wove through the city’s darkened streets; unfortunately there was no direct path from where they were to the airport, so their pace was aggravatingly slow and the directions were annoyingly complicated.  Fortunately, however, it was so early in the morning that there was hardly anyone around, so she took the turns fast and hoped they didn’t attract the attention of the authorities.  Eventually they reached their destination, approaching from the south until they hit a barricade and a fence that ran the airport’s perimeter.  Beyond that it was dark, a flat expanse of wet green and pavement.  There was a single long building and a tower on the opposite side from where they were, and situated randomly around the runways there were smaller hangars and maintenance buildings.  It was hard to see, but further away where the taxiways were dirt and the grasses were taller there was a hangar with a faded 4 on its front, just as the text message on Rego’s phone had said.  And there were men outside it.  A lot of men.

Steve saw them, too.  “There.”

“Wasn’t there a road back–”

“Go.”  She threw the truck into reverse, tires spinning in gravel as she slammed on the gas.  She found the dirt road they’d passed before and turned sharply onto it.  It was bumpy and full of ruts, and it took them into the jungle embracing the rear of the airport.  For a moment she feared she’d made a mistake, that they were going the wrong way, but the top of that dilapidated hangar appeared through the mess of trees.  Still hidden in the woods, she quickly stopped the truck.  Wordlessly Steve hopped out, reaching for his shield.  He tossed her a carbine before slinging another over his shoulder.  She checked one of the handguns to be sure it was loaded.  Then she grabbed a second, checked that one too, and slid it into the holster she’d fastened to her thigh.  She strapped a knife to the back of her pants.  Rogers loaded another handgun and secured it on his hip.  A moment later he looked to her.  His eyes were dark, clear, intently determined.  A soldier’s eyes.  She’d never seen him quite like this.  All hints of the trauma he’d suffered just an hour before were utterly gone.  He was powerful and intimidating and awe-inspiring.  This was Captain America.  _He_ was Captain America.

And she was Black Widow.  They were not going to fail.

Silently and quickly they crept through the woods.  Ahead the sounds of an argument filled the quiet of the night.  One voice was most definitely Rego’s.  Frustration had fairly effectively stripped away all of his overblown swagger and fake gentility.  Through the fence she could see the pirates gathered around an older but sizeable C-27J cargo plane centered on the tarmac.  There were nearly three dozen of them, all armed to the teeth with rifles, shotguns, and handguns.  Halliday was restrained by a couple of the thugs to Rego’s left and a little behind him.  The entirety of the group (save Halliday, who looked scared out of his mind) was glaring threateningly across the way at the other side of the tarmac where there were nearly as many soldiers assembled.  They were standing behind an African man dressed in combat fatigues.  Obviously that was Rego’s contact and he was not a friend at all, it seemed.  Corrupt local militia perhaps?  The men were positively scowling at each other, and the tension in the air was as thick as the humidity.

The two Avengers stopped at the edge of the woods.  Rego and the other man were practically shouting at each other in some sort of African dialect Natasha didn’t know.  She glanced at Rogers.  His eyes were narrowed as he watched and listened, but she was fairly certain he didn’t know, either.  However, she didn’t need to understand what they were saying for it to be perfectly clear the situation was degrading, if it had ever been tenable at all.  Knowing how these things typically went (and she knew a great deal about that, for better or worse), maybe this had been Rego’s plan all along.  She could see he had the case with Halliday’s money in it, and he was offering it to the leader of the soldiers.  Perhaps that hadn’t been enough or the other man had seen that there was something potentially much more valuable at stake.  It didn’t matter.  After a particularly loud yell that probably was some sort of obscenity, the man pulled his gun and started shooting.

Natasha and Steve lingered in the shadows, watching as the situation dissolved into an all-out firefight.  The men scattered, the loud stuttering of many guns going off pounding through the early morning.  A few of the pirates ran to the plane, Rego dragging Halliday behind him.  Rego’s spurned business contact was screaming at the top of his lungs, and soldiers with RPG launchers were pouring out of the dilapidated hangar.  “Great,” Steve muttered beside her.  A wayward spray of bullets slammed into the trees and ground around them, and they both instantly dropped for cover.  Natasha rolled onto her back as the forest was ripped to shreds.  She calmly pulled her guns and checked them again.  Steve shook his head.  “I suppose waiting for them to kill each other isn’t an option.”

She’d thought about it.  “What?  And miss the fun?”

At her side, he gave a grunt and half a smile.  One of the thugs launched an RPG at the vans Rego and his men had driven there.  Something went up in a ball of flame that shot into the sky.  The trucks and cars adjacent to the explosion were knocked aside, one tipping to exposing its underside.  That was the next to go.  The ground shook with the force of the detonation, and men were screaming.  Still, over all of that deafening ruckus, she heard the propellers of the plane sputter and crank to life.  _Damn it._   There was no time now.  They needed to cut through the melee and get to that plane before it took off.  Or was destroyed.  Whichever came first.

He’d come to the same grim conclusion, turning onto his back.  He tightened the straps of his shield on his right forearm and pulled his own gun with his left.  There was a tiny hint of a wince on his face, but he was quick to take a deep breath and any signs of pain vanished.  The forest quivered with errant gunfire again, spilling torn leaves and shards of bark on them.  “Let’s give ’em what for,” he said.

“Tell me that’s not how you rallied your troops back in the day,” she teased.

Steve quirked another smile.  “Is it working?”

“No.”  He actually laughed, and she smiled back.  Then they turned to the situation before them, analyzing and thinking.  The propellers of the plane were fully engaged now, loud despite the crackle of gunfire and the flames devouring both some of Rego’s trucks and the crates and equipment surrounding the hangar building.  Some of the pirates were scrambling to remove the wheel chocks from around the plane’s landing gear so it could taxi.  The aircraft was sizeable, which meant it would need to get to the runway to take-off rather than just make do with whatever terrain it could find.  That meant they had time and room to work if they could move fast enough.  “Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah.  You?”

She was.  Strong and confident.  Comfortable.  Comfortable with him.  “Yeah.”

That was it.  They needed no more communication.  They broke free from the cover of the forest and its shadows, sprinting down to the fence.  He didn’t even slow, reaching out his hand to her.  She took it, letting her legs go loose and pliant as he mightily swung her up and clear over the barricade.  She landed lithely and rolled forward, quickly getting back to her feet and turning to help him.  He didn’t need it.  He jumped clear over the fence and hit the ground at her side.  They didn’t miss a beat, running again quickly and nimbly, and launched right into the fray.

For a long stretch of time, Natasha didn’t think.  She simply moved.  Both Rego’s men and the thugs allied with the disgruntled owner of the plane that Rego was stealing noticed the new complication in their fight.  They didn’t unite against a common enemy, so that was good.  But they sure as hell didn’t ignore the SHIELD agents barging into their brawl either as Natasha had somewhat hoped they might.  As outnumbered as she and Steve were, they were together far more skilled and powerful than all of these thugs combined.  She cut through a group of them, emptying her first gun at the line of soldiers and the second at the line of pirates, every shot striking true.  Men fell, clutching their guts and holding their legs and crying.  She took cover behind some crates near a burning mess of a car, reloading her gun.  Steve’s shield whizzed through the air across the tarmac, smacking into a pirate trying to remove the chocks.  The guy went down with a cry, but that didn’t stop the plane from beginning to rotate to face the taxiway.  The jet props whirred, deafeningly loud at this close range.  Slowly the plane turned, but once it cleared the hangar area and made it to the open ground of the taxiway, there’d be nothing to stop it.  They needed to move fast or they were going to lose it.

Gritting her teeth, Natasha emerged from her cover, firing again.  Across the way on the other side of the tarmac, Rogers was fighting like he’d never been hurt at all.  He was fast, powerful, perhaps a little too traditional in his style but still an incredible force to be reckoned with.  He knocked his shield into one of the thugs, snatched another by the arm, plowed that brute into a third, and finished it all with a fluid kick to the chest of a fourth guy who was coming at him with a knife.  The man screamed as the force threw him dozens of feet away and right into the rotating propeller of the cargo plane.  Natasha winced inwardly and averted her gaze.  She threw her handgun that was now empty again at the face of a man charging her, knocking him right onto his rear.  Then she cartwheeled, spring-boarding onto another pile of crates both to avoid the rampant gunfire and engage the next group of pirates trying to stop her.  “Kill them!” Rego screamed from the open aft door of the cargo plane.  He gazed over the melee in unbridled disgust.  _“Façam, seus idiotas!  Kill everyone!”_

The pirates regrouped at that.  They were surging forth from behind Natasha, and she jumped back over the crates.  The other side wasn’t much better.  Some of the soldiers defending the plane and its hangar saw her coming, but they were too late to do much of anything but fire their guns wildly.  Every shot missed her, and she landed an impressive kick in the stomach of the closest soldier.  He staggered, and she brought her carbine up, pumping round after round into the remainder of the men.  When they were all moaning on the ground, she swung the gun around like bat, smashing the face of the last guy still near her.

An RPG whooshed by barely a foot away from her arm.  Instinctively she ducked, spinning as she did to see what the grenade hit.  Thankfully Rogers wasn’t in its path.  It missed the men bunkered down in the hangar and behind the boxes and trucks around it as well, uselessly striking the ground some distance away.  But more shots followed in a veritable barrage.  Natasha observed in dismay as the array of RPGs battered the hangar and the men defending it.  She saw Steve duck, curling into himself and bringing his shield up over his head, as the grenades met their marks.  The side of the hangar exploded.  Then some crates to the left.  Then the interior of the building.  That last burst seemed surprisingly small at first, and for a moment she could only watch in stupefaction as another grenade streaked inside the old, rusted hangar doors.  This one hit something significantly more volatile, gas or oil or the like, and the hangar absolutely exploded.

Fiery debris careened toward her.  She dropped flat to the ground, grimacing at the heat and the force slamming into her hapless body.  Men screamed, burning.  She prayed none of them was Steve.  When she dared to look again, she saw a wall of fire as the building and the things surrounding it were completely consumed in an inferno.  The blaze was burning huge and hot thanks to the gas.  If the local authorities hadn’t noticed the firefight occurring in this little corner of their airport, they surely would now.

The plane had rotated completely, magically unharmed and unabated by the explosion.  Now it was moving off the tarmac onto the unpaved taxiway, kicking up dirt in a huge brown and gray cloud.  Its engines were throttled up way too high for taxiing, dangerously so, and the two propellers were creating a windstorm of earth and debris that nearly knocked her down.  She struggled to keep to her feet against the onslaught.

Steve was suddenly there, running up to her.  He’d emptied his guns during the fight and discarded them because now he only had his shield.  The paint was burned away in a few long streaks.  “We have to catch that plane,” he gasped, squinting as he stared through the smoke and dust.

Chasing it didn’t seem optimal.  What was left of the pirates was still intently battling what was left of the soldiers.  And there was a wail of sirens in the distance, but by the sound of it they were getting closer.  “You have a plan?” she breathlessly asked, dragging him down to the ground when a spray of gunfire came too close.

He cocked an eyebrow, watching the plane race down the taxiway and the swarm of emergency vehicles come at it from the other direction.  The last couple of Rego’s vans were driving up behind the plane like some sort of escort, guns firing at the incoming firetrucks and police vehicles.  It was madness.  The C-27J was big enough that it could simply plow through the resistance.  Steve watched the ridiculous fight for a moment, a little slack-jawed like he couldn’t believe he was seeing a plane trying to bulldoze a firetruck.  Then he closed his mouth and looked at her with narrowed eyes.  “This time I think I do.  Come on!”

He took off in a run, swinging wide through the grass away from the disaster of a fight.  She followed, realizing instantly that he was trying to avoid the massive kickback from the propellers.  A few humongous bangs rocked the earth, and she looked over her shoulder to see a police car burning wildly and careening off the runway.  Guns cracked, and over a megaphone she heard a man yelling at the plane to stop.  It wasn’t stopping.

Neither were they.  Steve led her ahead, jumping over fresh rain puddles and soggy earth to the runway.  He was running fast, unhindered by his injuries, outpacing the cargo plane as it was forced to slow and deal with the obstacles in its path.  Natasha’s quick eyes found Rego, still standing in the open aft door despite the ridiculous amount of wind ripping at him from the propellers.  He was screaming, yelling orders at his crew as though they could hear him.  Steve turned sharply right ahead, veering onto the taxiway behind the cop cars.  She matched every step he took.

From the truck behind the plane, one of the pirates with the RPG launcher fired again, and another of the emergency vehicles went up in flames.  Steve whirled and dropped to his knees, grabbing Natasha and protecting them both with his shield.  The other firetrucks and police vehicles rapidly pulled off the taxiway to allow the plane to pass, probably desperate to avoid the same fate.  When that happened, their meager cover vanished and the pirates immediately spotted them despite the smoke and flames.  Therefore the next shot was aimed directly for them.  Natasha tugged Steve over the hood of one of the abandoned security cars as the missile struck where they had been.  The roar was miserably loud, and she winced, watching through teary eyes as the cargo plane tried to maneuver through the debris littering the taxiway.  It veered to the left, the pilot throttling up the engines again to gain speed.  The steps leading to the front and rear doors had been left open, and they snagged on the flaming mess of the remains of a firetruck as the plane surged by.  The stairs were simply ripped clean away.  That would make it difficult to get aboard.

More disturbing than that, though, was the fact the plane was headed right toward them.

But, then, that was what Steve wanted.  Natasha realized it as he pulled her against him.  The cacophony of the plane, the props spinning faster and faster, was deafening.  She couldn’t hear anything he said, anything at all.  She couldn’t hear her own heart racing.  But she understood what he intended.  The hulking mass of the plane came at them, and he tugged her to the left, closer to its center.  Overhead the wing passed and the propeller attached to it sliced dangerously through the air, deadly sharp and powerful.  Even though she wasn’t tall enough to be struck, she almost ducked.  Almost.  Instead she quickly backed a few feet from Steve.  When the rear door was about to pass them by, she ran a few huge steps and jumped as high as she could onto his shield.  He lifted her with all his strength, flinging her up just as he had during the Battle of New York.

She landed right inside the plane.

Rego was there to greet her.  His dark eyes were narrowed, his face taut with a scowl.  And his gun was aimed right at her.  “Well, _gatinha._   You are one tough little spider to kill.”

She darted her eyes into the shadowy fuselage behind him.  There were loads of crates loosely strapped down and rather poorly secured to the deck.  Obviously the owner of the plane had fully stocked it to fly somewhere, and she imagined the containers were loaded with stolen goods or guns or worse.  And Halliday was tied up between two of the larger pirates.  Three thugs against her.  The odds were decent, so she cocked an eyebrow.  “Were you expecting any less?”

Rego smirked, but she could see he was absolutely at the end of his patience.  “I’m pretty tired of having this damn thing stolen from me,” he snapped.  She could see he had the Eye of Ra clenched in his other hand, like he didn’t trust it to be anywhere else at this point.  “It’s mine.”

“It’s just a stone,” she returned, shouting over the din of the fight and the roar of the plane.  “Is it worth all this?”

“It’s worth way more than that now,” he returned, tightening his finger on the trigger.  His eyes were dark with anger, with all the damage done to his operations by this job.  With all the damage done to his pride.  “I thought you and I could be something together.  Something amazing.  The infamous Black Widow.”  He looked genuinely disgusted, genuinely upset that she wasn’t as amenable to his prospects as he’d hoped.  “I was wrong.  You’re not breaking Captain America in.  He’s breaking _you_ in.”

Anger surged through her, anger she didn’t like and didn’t understand, and her need to attack and kill him was almost a physical jolt over her.  However, before she could so much as move, the entire plane jerked as something exploded right outside, behind them it seemed.  _Rogers_.  She didn’t dare look, didn’t see if he was okay or still fighting their pursuers.  Rego lost his balance, and she attacked.  She sprung forward, getting both her hands around the gun.  It went off as they struggled for dominance, bullets peppering the crates around them and the ceiling.  The plane shook more, but Natasha kept her footing, swinging Rego around and tucking herself around his back to get a better grip on the gun.  She aimed it at his own men, who were fumbling for their weapons, and forced him to pull the trigger.  Halliday screamed as the guy next to him was shot.  He fell with a heavy thud, dropping the handgun he had been clamoring to aim.  Rego screamed something in Portuguese, but she’d rather effectively forced him to be her human shield so the other pirate hesitated in shooting at them.  Rego stomped his boot onto her foot, sending pain up her calf.  When the plane lurched sharply, she fell.

Terror jolted through Natasha as she hit the flight deck hard.  Her head was outside the open door, blasted by wind, and for a horrific second she caught a glimpse at Steve.  His shield was bright, shining in the gray light of early dawn as it slammed into one of the trucks pursing them.  The vehicle flipped over itself before exploding.  Ahead there was more gunfire, the soldiers from before or the local army.  She couldn’t tell which.  It was absolute chaos, these opposing forces filling the airport with utter anarchy as the plane plowed its way toward the runway.  And Steve was reclaiming his shield and running after it.  He was trying to keep the plane safe, she realized in that split second.  He was trying to guard it because she was on it.  He was protecting her.  He had her back.

She had to get the 084.

Unfortunately, the fraction of a moment she’d spent watching this proved costly.  Rego snatched her by the ankle and hauled her more fully back into the plane.  She kicked hard, catching his hand with the gun, and the weapon went flying.  That didn’t dissuade him, and he threw himself over her, crushing her into the floor.  Apparently he’d drawn a knife in between losing his gun and pinning her down.  Between the violently ripping wind and disorienting chaos just outside, she barely caught his wrist in time as he jabbed the sharp edge of the blade toward her throat.  “Now,” he murmured.  The knife jabbed into her skin, slicing with a burning sting.  She pushed back as hard as she could, gritting her teeth.  It was his strength against hers.  His eyes glowed in more than just lust.  In _anticipation_.  “ _This_ is how I’d prefer to have you.  Should have forced you down from the beginning.  I don’t ask for what I want.”  He sneered, ugly and vain.  _“I take.”_

That anger came back, hot and driving, and she yanked his arm to the side.  He thrust down, only her neck wasn’t there anymore because she was rolling sharply.  The knife drove into the flight deck with a surprisingly loud clang, and she shoved him off, curling forward and reaching behind her as she did.  Smoothly she rose, yanking her own blade free from its sheath and whirling.  He cried out as she cut him across the face.  It wasn’t much, just a thin line of red where the tip had sliced through his cheek, but it was enough to scar.  He looked at the red coating his hand after touching the slice and glared murderously at her.

She backed off, twirling her blade expertly, and fell into a combat stance.  “Come on then.  Try.”

The plane rattled and turned sharply again.  Rego glared at her, bringing his own knife up.  He seemed like he was about to do exactly as she beckoned and advance, but then he stood a little straighter.  “I’m a captain.  I don’t do my own dirty work.”  He gestured behind her with the knife.  _“Máten-na.”_

Natasha dove just in time to avoid the spray of bullets from a rifle.  She barely scrambled away from the perilously open door, crawling toward one of the crates.  _Damn it._   The bullets drove into the crate between her and the man firing at her.  _Men.  Damn it!_   Apparently while she’d been preoccupied with Rego, reinforcements had come from the cockpit.  There were now three pirates unloading their guns at her.  It didn’t seem to be a particularly bright idea to be shooting up the inside of the plane.  Bullets tore into the fuselage, and hydraulic fluid spurted all over the floor from a ripped pipe.  It was like a gouge in an artery, spilling slick liquid everywhere.  The rear of the plane shook with a series of explosions outside.  It had to be Steve.  Thoughts of him came unbidden again, and so did the worry that accompanied them.  _Can’t help him now._

She waited until the pirates stopped shooting before jumping up and over the crate, armed with only the knife, and charged the men.  She used the wet floor to her advantage, dropping to her knees and using her momentum and the lubricated slide to go faster, as the pirates opened fire again.  She hit the first one hard, knocking him head over heels.  From there it was a simple matter of catching his gun that was flying through the air.  She rose, holding the AK-47 tightly and quickly sighting down the remaining assailants.  The crates around her shattered, bits of wood and plastic spraying everywhere, but as she predicted the plane’s uneven jittering and slippery floor compromised the men’s aim.  Theirs, not hers.  She pulled the trigger twice, and they both fell to the ground, dead.

Halliday squealed as the corpses settled next to him where he was cowering on the floor.  Before Natasha could go to him or even speak, a heavy weight pounced on her.  She went down hard on her side, aggravating injuries from the crash seemingly forever ago.  The rifle was flung across the room from the impact because her fingers went limp in surprise and pain.  Rego was on top of her, snagging a fist in her hair and stabbing with his knife.  She fought back on instinct, drawing her own blade again, and struggled to get to her feet.  She kicked him away, but he came right back, slashing like lightning.  It was a tangle of limbs and a blur of motion for a moment.  Then his blade found her thigh.

Natasha bit down her cry of pain, yanking her body away to free herself.  It hurt tremendously, but she dropped her weight to her injured leg and kicked with the good one.  Her boot hit his chest, sending him flying back over the crates and into the shadows.  Breathing heavily, she looked down at the wound.  It was deep, and she was bleeding heavily, though not enough that she suspected the artery was damaged.  Looking up again, the fuselage had grown silent.  The thundering racket outside continued, of course, but Rego was _gone._   She couldn’t see him.  _Shit._   Struggling to catch her wind, she dropped beside Halliday.  “Stay with me,” she ordered in a harsh whisper, taking her knife to the ropes around his wrists.  She almost stopped herself, but it didn’t feel right to leave an unarmed, noncombatant defenseless in a situation like this.  Not anymore.

The propellers outside suddenly revved up, spinning much, much faster.  The plane jolted forward, and she lost her footing on the slick floor and ended up on her rear.  Halliday wrenched away from her and crawled into the shadows behind them, hiding amongst the crates.  Heart pounding and eyes wide, Natasha looked around and realized the plane was _taking off_.  Without Rogers.  Everything shifted backward, and she scrambled for a handhold on a crate to prevent herself from sliding.  She could almost feel the plane leave the ground, the aircraft shuddering and shaking unnaturally.  The pilot was taking the climb aggressively, turning the floor into a steep angle.  Natasha got behind one of the crates and used it to steady herself.  She needed to get to the cockpit and force the plane back down.

An assault rifle let loose a torrent of bullets.  _Rego._   He was on the other end of the plane, down in the shadowy area where the cargo ramp was.  There was a veritable maze of crates between them, and he was firing blindly, trying to get lucky.  Natasha pressed herself to the boxes behind her, wincing at the ache in her leg and head and struggling to listen.  With the way things echoed and the noise of the propellers just outside, it was impossible to determine from where Rego was shooting.  He laughed, and his voice reverberated in the cavernous hold.  “Itsy bitsy spider…” he sing-songed.  He spoke softly in Portuguese.  She realized too late that they were commands to the pilot.  The plane veered sharply to the left, turning in its insane climb, and Natasha scrambled hang on.  Rego cackled again, and gunfire exploded at her.  Her exposed arm was clipped, and she grunted and squeezed her eyes shut.

Rego ceased firing again, probably checking to see if he’d killed her.  When he realized he hadn’t, he went on in his taunting.  “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The plane righted itself.  She jerked back in the other direction, and Rego responded with another blast of gunfire from the shadows.  Daylight, pale and new, spilled in through the open aft door as the plane broke through the clouds and banked.  It hit just so, shining on something small and brightly orange.  _The Eye._  It was still in his hand, and he was right on the other side of this row of crates, braced against the rear of the plane.  Seeing that, a frantic idea burst through Natasha’s thoughts.  She scooted down, ignoring the laughing and taunting, and took her knife to the straps securing the crates, sawing frantically.  One gave way.  Then another.  “Come on, _gatinha!_   At least make this a challenge!”  She scooted to the other side, cutting through the thick black strap.  The knife was dulling very quickly.  Sweat beaded on her face, stinging in her eyes.  “I’m waiting!”

The strap finally gave, and that was enough to free the crates.  She grabbed onto the coarse fabric where it was still hooked to the floor as the plane’s angle sent the crates tumbling toward the back.  The floor was so slick with hydraulic fluid that the boxes that weren’t falling slid loose, knocked from their straps by the cascade.  As things were tossed and broke, chunks were sucked through the still open door.  It was a horrible loud ruckus, an avalanche of molded plastic and wood, and Rego screamed loud enough to be heard over the din.

Natasha stared at the darkened mess of debris, not quite believing that it was over.  She clumsily got her feet beneath her, a little too shaken to feel the pain from the knife wound, and limped down the flight deck toward the mess.  The plane was still climbing and quite steeply tipped, so she walked carefully.  The crates that had toppled were in a busted mess on the other side of the fuselage, not far from the open aft door where the sky was streaking by them.  Had everything fallen a few feet to the right, the whole mess could have been sucked out of the plane.  As it was, she spotted Rego almost immediately, buried under one of the larger boxes.  He was crushed.

And the Eye was glittering right on the floor beside him, having fallen loose from his limp, bloody hand.

She knelt quickly and snatched it up, the weight comforting in her palm.  Turning, she started to run toward the cockpit.  Now all she had to do was get the pilot to land the plane...

There was never the chance to try.

“Give it to me!  It’s mine!  _Give it to me!”_   The hoarse cry stopped her dead in her tracks.  Almost instantaneously a weight slammed viciously into her.  _Halliday._   She’d made a monumentally stupid mistake, but it was too late to do anything about it.  The archaeologist tackled her, gun in her face, hands clawing at her as he drove them both across the floor.  Her feet skidded in the hydraulic fluid, her wounded leg crumpling.  The gun went off.  Pain rippled through her shoulder, and she staggered, losing her grip on her knife.  Wind violently ripped and sucked and clawed and _pulled_.  _The door!_   Panic rushed through her frantically pumping heart, and she twisted, fighting to hold onto her balance.  Fighting and losing.  The Eye dropped from her hand as she scrambled for something, _anything_ , to stop herself.

There was nothing.

A split second passed, and as Natasha pitched backward, she saw Halliday reach for the stone that was tumbling from her hand.  He caught it and closed his fingers around it at long last.  His eyes lit up.  He smiled and laughed.

Then she screamed as she fell out of the plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gatinha_ – kitten (slang for sexy woman)  
>  _Façam, seus idiotas!_ – Do it now, you idiots!  
>  _Máten-na._ – Kill her.


	9. Chapter 9

Steve’s hearing was far superior to a normal man’s.  Therefore, despite the roar of the wind and the deafening blast of the propellers just a bit ahead of him, he heard the crack of a gunshot.

And Steve was fast, much faster than a normal man with reflexes that were serum-enhanced and battle-honed.  But even he couldn’t move fast enough to catch Natasha as she tumbled by him.

A scream tore from his lips as she fell.  It was happening in a split second, nothing more than the blink of an eye, but before that blink and after it, he saw red hair and black leather.  He saw a smear of blood on pale skin.  He saw her eyes.  Wide and horrified.  He lurched forward, maintaining a hold on the plane with his left hand and reaching, _reaching_ , with his right.  Reaching and missing.  His fingertips brushed hers, a faint touch and _nothing_ more, and the wind yanked her away and she was gone.

Steve ripped around, but only for a single, harried glance as she disappeared through the clouds, plummeting hundreds of feet down to the ground.  Then he turned back, shuddering, barely breathing, barely hanging on.  Completely unable to process what had just happened.  Natasha was gone.

Natasha was dead.

There was simply no way anyone could survive that.

Suddenly.  Unexpectedly.  Inexplicably.  _She was dead._

Steve couldn’t open his eyes.  He couldn’t move.  Couldn’t breathe.  He was clinging to the side of the plane but only because his body still had some instinctive sense of self-preservation pumping through it.  His heart was trembling in his chest, aching with sheer, unabated horror and guilt.  His mind was…

_“Bucky!”_

_No!_

The cold was there, wind slashing at his face, driving blade of ices and snow into his skin.  _“Bucky!  Hang on!”_   He was climbing down, sliding out of the train, grasping onto debris that was threatening to break away at any second.  Tears froze in his eyes as he reached.  Bucky looked up at him, terrified, desperate.  _Save me, Steve._    _“Grab my hand!”_   The rail Bucky was holding snapped.  Broke.  Came away from the train in seeming slow-motion, one painful inch at a time.  _“No!”_   He threw himself forward, straining to get to Bucky, to take his hand and pull him up and stop this…  But it was too late.

It was always too late.

_“Bucky!”_

Steve gasped, curling his fingers tighter around his handhold on the side of the plane.  His heart was pounding louder than everything now, louder than the wind and the hot air blasting him and the hum of the plane.  _Not again_ , it seemed to beat.  _Not again.  Not again.  Not again._

Again, it seemed.

It felt like forever that he stayed there, letting the wind rip him apart.  Some part of his brain that was still working realized it was only a moment or two, but those moments were stretched long with shock and the early, fuzzy stages of grief and anger.  Guilt.  _Go._   The command came, firm and determined, but he had a hard time accepting it, let alone obeying.  _Move.  Get up there._   He didn’t want to move.  He was tired, so tired, weeks and weeks of _everything_ smashing him down with this ultimate failing.  The culmination of something that was probably inevitable.  The flashback in the tank.  Natasha dismissing him, brushing him aside.  The long days spent floundering through a new world he didn’t know and didn’t want to know.  Being so, so alone.  He didn’t want to move.

 _Get up there and complete the mission.  She would have wanted you to complete the mission._   He opened his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, pressing himself harder to the side of the plane because he couldn’t let go.  Not here.  Not now.  _Not ever._   If he let go, he’d never stop falling.  Instead he allowed the anger to overpower the guilt and the grief.  She hadn’t wanted this.  She’d told him that, back in the savanna when they’d been walking and talking and maybe even finding some common ground between them.  She’d wanted to die for _something_ , a sacrifice that allowed the mission to be successful.  If he didn’t get up there, didn’t find the 084 and get it to SHIELD, her death would be meaningless.

He couldn’t let that happen.  He was a soldier, and soldiers kept fighting.  With a growl of effort, he pushed himself forward against the incredible force of the wind.  The plane was still climbing, though not as sharply as before, and gravity was cruel and punishing.  But he held on and pulled himself along the fuselage, digging the edge of his shield into the exterior to anchor himself.  The door was right there, barely a few feet away.  _Keep going.  Keep fighting._ He drew a deep breath before swinging his leaden body forward.  _Harder.  You owe her this much._ He tried again.  This time he could reach the open door, and he curled his fingers around the bottom of it where the wreckage of the steps still sadly clung.  The broken and mangled metal lurched, and he thought it would fail him, but it didn’t, and he hauled himself up into the plane.

He didn’t expect what he found.  The interior was a mess, liquid all over the floor, some crates still secured to the deck and others smashed into a pile against the far end of the area.  Dead bodies were strewn about.  Pirates Natasha had killed.  Rego was nowhere to be seen.

And there was a gun immediately shoved into his chest.  The gun Halliday was holding.  The gun he’d used to shoot Natasha.  Kill Natasha.  Steve stared at the barrel of it as it quivered, close enough that it was jabbing into his sternum.  The archaeologist seemed completely shattered, like he hadn’t quite realized what he’d done.  The lengths to which he’d gone to get the Eye.  He had his prize tight in his other hand, like he was desperately clinging to a drop of sun.  Steve lifted his chin, struggling to overcome his anger.  How could it have come to this?  “Put it down, Professor,” he warned.

The man shook his head, a spastic, uneven thing that spoke of having come this far and being willing to go farther.  “No!  No!  It’s mine!  This is how it’s supposed to end!”

“You killed Agent Romanoff.”

“Yes!” he snarled, and the gun pressed harder, shaking wildly.  “Yes, and I’ll do the same to you!”

Steve pushed away all of his emotions and drew a deep breath.  He had to talk this man down and put a stop to this.  He had to.  “Put the gun down,” he said again, calmly but not without a threat.  “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, I do!”  He tucked his clenched fist containing the Eye to his chest, like Steve’s doubt was somehow a threat to him.  That probably wasn’t far from the truth.  “You don’t know anything!  You don’t know what this is!”

Steve dropped his shield arm slightly, trying to seem less defensive.  “I know what it is,” he replied calmly.  Tentatively he took a step inside the plane.  The door was wide open behind him, revealing silvery and pearly clouds and a new day.  If he got shot, he didn’t want to suffer the same fate as Natasha had.  Halliday thankfully backed away.  He didn’t know why he was bothering with this, with _any_ of it.  He could move fast enough to disarm the other man.  Halliday was a civilian with no weapons training, and he was nearly hysterical on top of that.  Steve could take him down easily.

But he didn’t want to simply knock him out.  He wanted to understand, to make something right come out of this mission that had led to so much wrong.  So he took another deep breath to maintain his hold on his withering composure.  “I know what it is.  I know what you want.”  He held Halliday’s gaze.  The other man’s face was positively dripping with sweat, and the glimmer in his eyes was maniacal.  “You want to save her.”

The professor gasped a sob.  He held the stone tighter and tighter, his knuckles white and stressed with the effort.  Steve watched him battle his emotions.  His demons.  He knew he should feel animosity toward this man, hatred even, but he didn’t.  All he could muster was pity.  That picture in his office in London of the woman…  “Who was she?”

Halliday’s eyes were thick with tears.  “My wife,” he whispered hoarsely.

Steve exhaled slowly, his eyes darting back to the gun.  It was still too close to his chest.  “What happened?”

Halliday hesitated, quivering with barely restrained pain that he clearly didn’t want to face.  The hollowness of his gaze…  Steve recognized it.  He recognized it because he saw it in his own reflection every time he’d looked in the mirror the last few weeks since waking up in the future.  It was regret.  Sorrow.  Pain.  _Loneliness._ The haunting ghosts of moments long lost and irrecoverable.  “Eight years ago,” the man said in a throaty murmur, “we were on a dig outside of Giza.  It was a remote location and we had a small staff.  Too small.  A sandstorm took us by surprise.  We were trying to get out from a cavern, and she…  I went back down to get the things we’d found.  My field journal.  The damn useless _things_ that were so important to me.  And I left her there, and she waited for me.  When I came back, one of the reinforcing walls had collapsed from the force of the storm.  She…  She was buried alive.”

Honestly, Steve had suspected a story like that.  He chanced another tentative step inside the plane.  “It wasn’t your fault.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say.  The gun that had been lowering ever so slightly as Halliday sank into his memories whipped back up.  “Yes, it was!  Don’t tell me it wasn’t!  You don’t know!  You don’t know what I did!  I made a mistake and she…”  He choked on a cry.  “I have to make it right.  Don’t you see?  This can help me make it right!”

“It can’t,” Steve returned gently.  “There’s no power in the universe that can let a man go back and fix his mistakes.  You can’t change the past no matter how much you want to.”

“Yes, I can!  This gem can do it!  It’s this!  Right here in my hand!  I can use it to save her!  This can do it!”

“Sometimes things just happen.  There’s no reason.  No explanation.  Nothing you could have done differently.  They happen, and you can’t go back.  You just have to have faith that–”

“No!  Things happening for a reason?  _Fate?_   That’s nothing!  It’s all bollocks.  _Nonsense_ they tell you to help ease your pain, to give you some sense of closure.  I don’t want closure!  I want to make it right!”  Halliday was positively insane.  Twisted by grief and regret, perhaps, but mad and unreachable nonetheless.  He was beyond reason, beyond logic.  And his crazy plot had cost the lives of so many people.  The crew of the cargo ship Rego had slaughtered in order to steal the Eye.  The pirates that had been killed during the quest to reclaim it.  _Natasha_.  It wasn’t worth it.  _None_ of it was worth it.  “I _can_ make it right!  I can!”

Steve shook his head.  “Then do it.  You went through all this to have a chance to make it right, so make it right.”  This was a gamble, and he knew it.  If there was even the slightest chance that gem did what Halliday thought it did, he couldn’t allow this man to meddle with it.  That was power beyond comparison, power beyond comprehension, and it was not something with which _anyone_ should trifle.  Still, he was willing to bet it wasn’t so simple.  Halliday had said he didn’t know how it worked, and if Steve distracted him…  “Go ahead.  Save her, Professor.”

Halliday hesitated.  He looked between the gem cradled against his chest and Steve’s face, uncertainty splayed all over his features.  Desperation was bright in his eyes, desperation and fear, and he retreated from Steve on wobbly feet.  Steve remained unmoving even though he’d succeeded in getting the gun mostly away from his chest.  He watched the other man struggle with himself, studying the Eye more and more and paying less and less attention to his captive.  His confidence seemed to mount in the seconds that followed.  His belief in his own findings, his own conclusions.  His desire to do what he wanted to.  “Worthiness of the gods,” Halliday whispered.  The professor opened his fingers, raising his hand away from his body.  The light of dawn caught the Eye, and it glowed again.  Halliday stared at it, entranced, focused, like he could will the stone into opening its secrets to him.  He was whispering something, something that didn’t sound at all like English.  And he was growing agitated and impatient as whatever he was trying continued to fail.

Then he actually lowered the gun.

Steve moved fast.  He snatched the man’s wrist and twisted hard enough to destroy his grip but not violently enough to break his bones.  Driving Halliday down to his knees, he ignored the pained yelp and pulled the weapon from the other man’s twitching fingers.  He tossed it aside, out of the way where it couldn’t cause any more damage.  “It’s over,” he declared, voice rough from emotion he couldn’t restrain anymore.  “Give the Eye to me.”

 _“No!_   It’s not over!  It’s not over!  I can make it work!  _I can save her!_ ”  Frantic, Halliday struggled, shrieking and clawing and punching at Steve.  Steve fought mightily to hang onto his patience and his restraint as he wrestled with the other man.  Of course this wasn’t a battle Halliday could win, but that didn’t dissuade him from trying.  Nothing would, it seemed.  He was consumed, obsessed, tucking the Eye into his body and almost petulantly preventing Steve from reaching it.  Frustration left Steve scrambling simply to put a stop to this without hurting him.  Eventually he pinned the other man, wincing at his shrill howling, and banged Halliday’s right hand onto the deck until he dropped the Eye.  “No, no.  Please don’t take it.  Please,” Halliday moaned from beneath Steve’s weight.  “Please, please, _please_ …”

His piteous wailing and whining dissolved into unabashed sobbing as Steve reached his right hand over to where the gem had landed on the floor.  The sunlight was striking the jewel just so, setting it aglow in a show of twinkling yellow and orange.  Oddly enough, however, there were other colors.  Blue.  Red.  Shadows and light.  Halliday’s thrashing fell away as Steve narrowed his eyes, unsure of what he was seeing.  He couldn’t quite piece it together, but there was definitely _something_ unusual in the light refracting inside the stone.  He’d looked at it before, and that hadn’t been there, had it?

In a blink, though, it was gone.  Muddled and dazed, Steve leaned over and took the jewel.  He climbed off of Halliday’s writhing form.  The archaeologist went right with him, punching and kicking like a wildcat.  “Stop, Professor,” Steve said, pushing him back with one hand.  “Stop!”

Halliday didn’t stop.  With furious, teary eyes, he launched himself onto Steve’s back, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck in some sort of pathetically inept attempt at choking him.  Between the added weight, his injuries, and the wet floor, Steve lost his balance enough to stagger backward.  Thankfully he hit the bulkhead beside the door rather than falling through the door itself.  The impact sent Halliday’s head smacking into the bulkhead, and he let go.  Steve turned to find him soundly unconscious and slumped against the floor.

The hold was eerily quiet.  Steve swallowed thickly, glancing down at the Eye, before pulling Halliday’s limp body away from the door.  He checked his pulse and found it to be strong, though the lump he had on the back of his head was sizeable.  He found a ripped strap that had probably secured the crates and used that to tie him up.  Then he stood.  Somebody had to be flying the plane.  He needed to get to the cockpit.  Take the last pirate prisoner and force him to land.  Get the 084 to SHIELD.

Complete the mission for Natasha’s sake.

But he didn’t.  Steve realized that he was shaking, that the shock of what had happened – of losing Natasha – was starting to sink its vicious claws into him.  He’d held it back until now, and with the adrenaline fading it seemed like it was simply ripping his heart open.  He didn’t know why.  He hadn’t known her that well, at all if he was honest.  And he’d lost men before by the dozens.  He’d fought in World War II; he understood what it was like to have comrades go down in a battle.  There was always sorrow and regret, but this was _more_ and he just couldn’t explain that.  Maybe it was simply the ordeal through which they’d gone together.  Maybe it was the fact that they’d been alone; her life had been his responsibility as his had been hers.  Maybe it was that she’d saved him in that tank from more than just drowning.

Maybe.

All he knew was that, for whatever the reason, he felt now like he’d felt then when he’d lost Bucky.  The both of them…  How could it have happened again?  He shivered as the awful cold came back, and tears burned his eyes, tears of defeat and helplessness.  The wind wrapped around him, caressing and claiming with icy fingers, and he felt like he was falling, too.  How could he have been _too slow_?

_How could I have…_

_I can use it to go back._   The thought came from nowhere, but once it came, hot and true, it wasn’t leaving.  It was engraining itself into him, weaving through the planes of his mind and heart.  Halliday’s words.  _I can make it right._   No.  That wasn’t possible.  Nothing could turn back time.  Not a grief-stricken man’s crazy ideas.  Not all the want of his aching spirit.  Not this gem.  _Nothing_.

But what if…  What if it could?

_I can use it to save her._

The hypocrisy didn’t even occur to him as he lifted his hand so he could see the Eye.  He unfurled his fingers and there it was, orange and green and blue and…  _It’s not possible._   The sun’s light was making it change colors.  It had to be some weird property of the rock, some sort of illusion because anything else was out of the question.  Still, when he peered closer, he realized the Eye wasn’t just changing color.  He could see inside, and inside, there was a man standing there _._ Blond hair.  Dark clothes.  Strong stature.  Battered and bruised with his shield arm drooping and his right hand up to his face.

 _It’s me._   He was looking at _himself._

Steve gasped in surprise, feeling as though there were eyes raking over him, and whirled.  There was no one there.  Just the clouds floating by and the cargo hold.  Shaking, he turned back to the gem. 

Inside, he was still standing there.  Standing just as he was now.  Despite how odd and uncomfortable it was to watch, he made himself do it.  What was this?  _The present._   If the gem controlled time…  _The past._

_I can save her!_

There was an explosion of color all around him.  Steve gasped, barely keeping upright in the onslaught.  It was incredible, unnerving, feeling but no feeling at all.  So much light and sound, a great blur of it all around him, consuming and pulling and pushing.  He screamed but his voice was silent, consumed by the chaos.  He spun, nauseated and lost, as the world dissolved and reformed only to rip itself apart before putting itself back together.  It was too much, overwhelming, _too much_ …

He opened his eyes.  He was still standing, standing _outside of time._   Looking in.  The bright splashes of colors, the cacophony of sound.  Seconds.  So many of them, moving so fast, one after another after another as far as he could see, curling all around him in an endless spinning vortex.  He could see them all.  Past, present, and future.  The universe spread open before him, and he could…  He had to…

He couldn’t remember what he’d come to do.

_I have to go back.  I’m supposed to go back.  I don’t belong here._

Back to 1945.  He felt it, this pull inside him, like his thoughts were altering the flow of time and space around him.  _1945._   He could go home, home to his family, to his friends, to the woman he loved.  He wouldn’t be alone anymore.

_“You’re not alone.”_

_Peggy._   It all seemed to respond to his will, the storm raging around him.  A moment paused, and he saw…  She was there, at the dance hall in the Stork Club, dressed in blue with beautiful red lips and her hair pinned back elegantly.  _1945._ The Saturday after he’d died.  Eight o’clock sharp.  But he wasn’t there.  She was alone, and he was watching.  There were tears in her eyes that she was refusing to cry.  She was staring at nothing, at the untouched drink before her that was weeping condensation like tears.  _“Steve,”_ she whispered. _“Please come home.”_

Everything shifted wildly, and he couldn’t hold onto any of it.  He was so beleaguered he couldn’t even think to try.  More moments.  They came by so fast, bombarding him until he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing or hearing.  Voices he barely recognized.  Howard Stark.  _“I’m bringing Cap back, Peg.”_

His own.  A plane careening down into the ice.  _“Peggy, this is my choice.”_

 _“Steve is gone.  We have to move on.  All of us.”_   Peggy, choked with emotion.

A plane flying to New York City.  _“I’ll bring him home.”_

 _“As impossible as that may sound, we have to let him go.”_   Blood dripping down from the Brooklyn bridge like red rain.  _“Goodbye, my darling.”_

_No.  I can go back!_

An arm around his shoulder.  Bucky’s arm.  _“Where are we going?”_

A newspaper pushed into his chest.  _“The future.”_

 _No!_   He struggled, but he didn’t know what he was fighting.  The seconds rushed away, more coming right after.  Another time, another place.  A quiet, dark room in a house.  A woman in a rocking chair.  Everything slowed for one peaceful, perfect moment, the storm quieting as she rocked.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  The beat of his heart.  She turned, so very beautiful.  _Peggy._   She looked tired but happy.  Her eyes met his, hers aglow with contented tears.  _“Come here,”_ she whispered.  She was beckoning him, turning slightly in the chair to reveal a tiny bundle wrapped in swaddling in her arms.  _“Come here and see your son.”_

Pride and love, so much love, burst through him, and he tried to go to her, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t because he wasn’t there.  She wasn’t talking to him.  She wasn’t looking at him with adoration and contentment in her eyes.  An odd sensation of coming apart tingled throughout his body, and then another man walked through him.  A man with neatly combed brown hair wearing an A-shirt and pajama pants.  He wanted with a significant limp and a cane.  Steve didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.  This was his life, wasn’t it?  The life he was supposed to have with her.  Their house.  Their marriage.  Their baby.  He was her husband.

No, this wasn’t some dream.  This was the past.  He was seeing the past.  This was a moment Peggy was sharing with this man and not Steve.  The man came over, wrapped a strong hand on Peggy’s bare shoulder, and leaned down to kiss her.

Steve’s heart broke.

And there was more.  So much more.  SSR.  SHIELD.  Peggy building, leading, commanding, fighting.  Fire and beauty and passion.  So much strength.  And he wasn’t there.  He was watching, but _he wasn’t there._   This wasn’t his life.  This was hers.  What she’d lived the last seventy years without him.  She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother.  Not his wife, not the mother of his children.  She’d moved on.  He could see it now.  She’d moved on and lived a wonderful life, a full life.  A happy life.

He didn’t have a place in it.  _He never had._

In a place where time didn’t exist, he had no chance at all to understand that, let alone accept it, because the whirlwind ripped him away from the past and threw him somewhere else.  Steve lost himself completely, torn apart itself by the force of it.  It was too much.  He couldn’t control it.  The past was colliding with the future, over and over again, bursting with all the power of a supernova that scattered his senses.  This was beyond him, far beyond him.  He couldn’t control it.  He couldn’t hold onto anything, not what he needed to do nor where he was nor when he was.  Not who he was.  Everything was a blur that was so fast and so overwhelming that his brain simply failed to process it.  He was lost in it.  Becoming part of it.  Being peeled away, layer by layer, until there was nothing left.

No, there was one thing left.

_Natasha._

In the center of the whirlwind, she was there.  Inexorably he came to her in this silent world of white.  The eye of the storm.  The heart of it.  She was peaceful, stunning.  Fire and beauty and passion.  She saw him.  She smiled at him.  It was a smile he felt like he knew, though he was certain he’d never seen her smile like that before.  _“Steve.”_ She held her hand out to him.  And he reached out to take it.

_Save her._

That gave him the strength and courage to _think_ again, and when he did, it all stopped.  The vortex of minutes and seconds and days and months and _years_ vanished.  All of eternity condensed into one place, one time.

And he had ended up _exactly_ where he needed to be.

Steve went down hard onto his knees onto the taxiway, too shocked and overwrought with sensation and emotion to fully process what had just happened.  His brain was wracking in his skull, and his heart pounding and pounding.  He was shaking beyond his control.  But he came back to himself with surprising alacrity.  Somehow…  Was this possible?

Somehow he’d thrown himself _back_ , back a few minutes to _before_.

 _Natasha’s alive.  She’s still alive._ She was aboard the plane, probably fighting Rego.  And he was stuck on the taxiway, chasing it and trying to keep it from getting destroyed in the crossfire.

The Eye had taken him into the past.

That was too much to process, the where and the how and the why, and there was no time at any rate.  He quickly took stock of himself.  His hand was clenching around nothing.  The Eye was gone because he didn’t have it yet.  His shield was on his right arm.  He was alright.  He could do this.

_I’m going to save her._

The plane was about to turn onto the runway.  The pirates in the two trucks were shooting at him and shooting at the local authorities.  The rocket launchers were still glimmering despite the last shadows of night clinging to everything.  Déjà vu prickled over him, leaving him reeling a precious second or two.  Then he snapped to it.  He _knew_ what was going to happen because to him it already had.  _Stop them_.

Everything replayed in his head, a perfect sequence of events from this moment to the moment where Natasha had fallen past him.  He had to finish the pirates before he got onto the plane.  The urge to just run and get aboard now before it sped away was nearly overwhelming, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  A couple of those RPGs had nearly hit the tail before he’d stopped them, and if he prematurely left, it could lead to disaster.

So he gritted his teeth, picked himself up, and threw himself into the fight because there was no time to spare.  He flung his shield at the first truck, smashing through the windshield.  _They’re going to fire back_.  They did with a spray of automatic gunfire that ripped chunks of dirt and grass right out of the taxiway.  The bullets missed him, of course, because he was already gone.  Running to the left, toward the other truck where one of the pirates was aiming the rocket launcher at an army vehicle careening down the runway ahead.  _It’ll miss._   It missed, striking the ground underneath the wing of the plane, shaking the entirety of it.  The soldiers trying to surround the plane responded by returning fire themselves, their willingness to attempt to resolve this nonviolently long since spent.  Steve ran, the ground peppered with gunfire behind him, and launched himself in front of the truck where his shield was embedded in the back of the cab.  He catapulted onto the hood, jumping up and reaching inside the shattered windshield to yank his shield free.  He smashed it back and forth, knocking out both the driver and the passenger as they fumbled for their guns.  _It’ll tip.  Jump off._   The driver slumped over the wheel, turning it sharply, and given the truck’s momentum, it rolled.  Steve jumped off, landing in the grass.  _And it explodes._   One of the pirates had been in the process of loading his RPG launcher in the back of the truck, and it projectile ended up being fired into the flatbed thanks to the crash.  The truck went up in a ball of fire.

 _Go._   That didn’t deter the other truck or him.  It pulled ahead of him, and a thug in the back unloaded his AK-47.  Steve got his shield up to protect himself, the bullets clanging uselessly against the vibranium.  A series of harsh explosions resounded, both from the truck behind him detonating again and the pirates in the flatbed of the other vehicle trying anew to take out the resistance.  _He’s going to kill the soldiers.  Drop him._   Steve hadn’t been able to stop that before, but now he knew and he could.  He threw his shield again before ducking to avoid another barrage of bullets.  It soared through the air, spinning perfectly to ricochet off the thug with the RPG launcher.  The shot diverged from its intended course, blowing a huge rut in the road ahead of the truck.  It veered wildly, tires shrieking.

Ahead the plane swung onto the runway.

Another of the pirates twisted around in the back of the truck, aiming the rocket launcher at him.  This was where he’d destroyed the truck before.  He’d thrown his shield at the rear wheel, popping it as the vehicle had slowed and spun to avoid the kickback of the plane.  That had caused the truck to crash.  He’d had to jump over the wreckage and catch the plane.  He’d hardly been able to run fast enough with the plane’s speed and the airflow from the propellers fighting him.  He’d chased it and barely made the jump at the last second.  And then he’d been forced to cling to the landing gear, wasting time and effort trying to climb from the underbelly to the side.  That was what he had done, and it hadn’t been enough.  He hadn’t been fast enough.  He hadn’t reached the aft door soon enough.

The plane’s engines whirred louder.  The pilot was preparing for take-off.

He needed to get on.  _Now._ And he had to do it faster.

Steve didn’t think twice.  His shield was back on his arm, and he _ran._   His mind raced, and he looked at the truck.  With the propellers of the plane spinning so much faster, the force of the wind was crushing, punishing, shoving everything back.  But he kept behind the truck, using it to shield him, and one mighty leap landed him on the flatbed.  He was like lightning, attacking the handful of pirates with precision.  A kick knocked the guy with the RPG launcher off, and momentarily he thought about snatching up the fallen gun to shoot the plane and stop it, but that seemed unpredictable and dangerous and he just couldn’t risk it with Natasha aboard.  So he threw the RPG launcher away and took out the other pirates.  A bullet sliced his arm; he didn’t know who had shot him, and he didn’t care.   He didn’t slow down.  In a blink he was alone in the flatbed.

But he didn’t stop.  The plane was already zooming ahead, screaming faster and faster down the runway.  Steve hopped onto the top of the cab.  The truck was slowing and turning.  He couldn’t let that happen.  He slid down the driver’s side, putting his fist right through the window.  The driver shrieked, late in shoving a gun into Steve’s face that Steve just grabbed and tossed aside.  He reached in and shoved down on the pirate’s leg, harshly forcing his foot onto the accelerator.  The man was simply so unprepared that he only howled in horror as he was forced to drive faster, scrambling to grab the steering wheel and steady the now speeding truck.  “Go straight!” Steve shouted, gesturing to the plane with his free arm.  “Straight!”

The man in the passenger seat aimed another gun at him, and Steve yanked up his shield in time to deflect the shots.  The bullets slammed back inside, killing the passenger and wounding the driver.  _Damn it._   But he didn’t let up, pushing down harder and harder on the guy’s leg until he was pretty sure he was bending the man’s bones.  The pirate wailed in terror and panic, white in the face and eyes as huge as saucers, but this was working.  They were gaining on the plane.  _A little further._   The local military shot at them as they raced past, and for a horrified moment, Steve worried they’d blow out a wheel or damage the car too much to keep going.  But they didn’t.  _Further. I can make it._   Was this enough?  Faster than before?  He wasn’t sure anymore.  The truck couldn’t drive behind the force of the propellers.  He didn’t think he could make the jump with that beating on him.  _Get on the plane!_

He reached into the cab and pulled the wheel hard to the left, veering away.  The driver screamed.  The plane’s front landing gear was rising off the ground.  _Go, go, go!_ Steve gritted his teeth, let go of the man as they passed under the wing, braced his feet against the door of the car, and jumped up as high as he could.  For an endless second, he thought he wouldn’t make it.

Then his hands wrapped around the edge of the wing.  He wanted to cry out, but there was absolutely no air in his lungs.  _This is insane!  This is goddamn insane!_ The wind yanked at him harshly, and he nearly lost his grip.  The plane was climbing so steeply.  _Everything_ was pulling at him, dragging his hapless body, but he wasn’t going to let go.  He wasn’t going to let go!

But he had to get off the wing, preferably without falling to his death or being shredded by the propeller whirring dangerously to his left.  He had to get to the aft door.

And, sadly, the only way to do that was to let go.  _It’s going to bank left.  Wait.  It’s going to bank left._   He could hardly think over the whooshing of air and the thunder of his pulse.  He was only going to have one shot at this.  _Let go.  You have to.  You have to let go._  The plane turned left, just as he knew it would.  It took an incredible amount of willpower to make his fingers unclench, to make his arms release, to make himself do what he knew he needed to do because every fiber of his being railed against this madness.  His muscles jerked and locked before he forced them to cooperate.  _Now!_ He let go.

And he flew.

And he hit.

_Hard._

It took less than a second for his body to cross the distance diagonally, tumbling behind the propeller to slam into the side of the plane.  He realized belatedly that he’d missed the door – _damn!_ – and that he was sliding and falling.  He scrambled, fighting to find something on which to grab.  There wasn’t anything, so he twisted around, managed to get his arm up, and drove the edge of his shield into the fuselage.

Lord, that hurt.  His arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket, but the straps held firm and he stopped falling.  He dangled uselessly for what felt like an endless eternity before he gathered his wits and his will.  The plane righted itself, easing out of the sharp turn, and its ascent leveled off.  There wasn’t much time left.  He knew it.  _Hurry._   He swung his body forward, using his shield to anchor himself.  He had to go now.  Faster.  He knew it was coming.  _Get over there!_   The door was just ahead.  He could make it.  _I have to make it._   He strained, fighting against the wind and gravity, reaching.  _I have to save her!_

The gunshot cracked.

_No!_

Steve looked up to see red hair in the open doorway.  Natasha was there.  She was stumbling.  Staggering.  About to fall.  He threw himself forward, rammed the edge of his shield in deep, as deep as he could, and leaned away from the plane.  His arm ached with the effort of reaching so far, of making his body as long as he possibly could.  She lost her footing completely.  The wind grabbed her and yanked her out.

It seemed to happen in slow-motion again.  Her eyes met his again.  Blue and green.  Wide with shock and terror and the awful realization that she was going to die.

_Never._

His fingers latched around her wrist, firm and strong, and _he caught her_.

Natasha’s scream was lost to the wind.  Steve yelled, “Hang on!”  That was lost, too.  But she wasn’t.  She wasn’t lost because he refused to let her go.  His arm felt like it was breaking, his back bowing, his lips pulled back from his teeth in soundless snarl of agony and effort.  He wouldn’t let her go.  He didn’t let her go.  Gathering the remains of his strength, he pulled her up, and she grabbed onto him, hooking her legs around his thigh and her arms around his neck.  Despite the pounding of the wind and the hundreds of feet between them and the earth and the panic still tight in his gut, he could sense her trembling, her breath against his neck, her slight form solid but somehow not quite real in his arms, like if he stopped to really feel any of this, it would turn out not to be true.  But he closed his eyes and let himself feel it, anyway.  There wasn’t much choice.  He needed to.

Then he remembered they were clinging to the side of a plane for dear life.  Wind was ripping through his hair, through hers where she was tightly cradled against him.  Where he was protectively pinning her to the fuselage.  He moved toward forward slowly, using his shield to anchor them both.  It wasn’t far to go.  When they reached the door and the debris still hanging onto it, she looked to him and wordlessly understood.  He took her by arm to steady her, pulling himself away enough for her to slip out from under him.  She climbed inside, aided by his strength pushing and his steady hand guiding.  Once she was secure on the deck of the plane, she reached around and grabbed his hand, pulling as he fought to force his leaden body to take these last few proverbial steps.  Together they managed to haul him up.

They collapsed side by side, his shield clanking against the wonderful firmness of the flight deck.  They were struggling just to breathe.  Steve could still feel her shaking.  He was shaking himself.  The enormity of what had nearly happened, of what he’d done…  He reached over and took her hand just to convince himself that this was real, that she was beside him, alive and breathing.  Relief crushed the last of the fight in him, and he closed his eyes.  _Thank God.  Thank God._ She was there.  He gave her fingers a firm, reassuring squeeze.  Slowly, uncertainly, she squeezed back.  _She’s okay.  She’s right here._

Somebody choked on a sob.  It wasn’t either of them, so he opened his eyes and leaned up.

Halliday was there, grasping the Eye with a horrified, shocked expression on his pale face.  He still had the gun in his other hand, and he pointed it at Steve’s chest as he got to his feet.  Steve wasn’t daunted.  This wasn’t going to happen.  Not now.  Not after all they’d been through.  _No._ “Put it down, Professor.”

The man shook his head again, that same spastic, uneven thing as before.  As now.  Steve was hardly sure anymore, and it didn’t matter.  The archaeologist backed away, stunned beyond rational thought, the gun quaking in his hand.  “No!  No!  It’s mine!  This is how it’s supposed to end!”

Steve didn’t argue.  Didn’t reason.  Didn’t even try.  He knew better.  Before Halliday could even react, he socked him in the face.  Halliday crumpled to the deck, knocked out cold from the blow.  And the Eye clattered to the floor beside him.

Steve stood over him, breathing heavily.  “Believe it or not, I’ve seen this before,” he said, “and _this_ is how it ends.”

* * *

At Agent Romanoff’s request, SHIELD dispatched an escort of four Harrier jets to guide the stolen cargo plane to the helicarrier.  They were flying east across Africa, presently cruising at a low altitude over Kenya and approaching Wakanda.  The plane had suffered some damage, but it seemed as though they would make it.

That was rather appropriate and applicable to things in general.  Damaged, but alright.

They’d secured the cockpit, taking the pilot prisoner.  They’d tied him and Halliday up, binding them both tightly to the flight deck using the straps from the crates.  Then they’d set the autopilot so they could tend to their wounds and take a moment to breathe.  The helicarrier was still another forty-five minutes or so away, and Natasha was bleeding pretty badly.  She’d been silent, not steely but withdrawn, since the end of the fight.  Steve found a first aid kit in an alcove behind the cockpit, old but never used.  They sat not far from the damaged aft door in the center of the fuselage, him pressing bandages to her shoulder.  The gunshot wound was a through-and-through and thankfully wasn’t serious.  The wound to her leg was more troubling, but he didn’t think the artery was compromised.  He’d already managed to get enough pressure on it to stop the bleeding, and he’d used his belt to craft a makeshift tourniquet to keep it under control.  Natasha’s face was empty, ashen, haggard from the early stages of shock.  Her eyes were ringed in lilac, distant and blank, and it bothered him a lot to see her this way.  He hadn’t expected revelry in the wake of having survived this nightmare (which still seemed a tad unbelievable), but this haunted look was worrisome.  He’d have to be blind not to see that she was deeply troubled, and he didn’t think it was simply and entirely due to the close call.

Once he was satisfied the gunshot wound had stopped bleeding, he bandaged it with fresh gauze and pads as best he could.  She would need the care of the SHIELD doctors when they reached the helicarrier, but it was adequate for now.  He stood and went to one of the crates that had been surprisingly stocked full of water.  He filled a canteen he’d located before near the emergency kit and gave it to her.  Then he washed his hands.  The plane was silent as a tomb, only the low whistle of the wind inside and out and the hum of the propellers filling the void.  He watched her drink, watched her and worried.  Eventually it was simply too much to let continue.  “You alright?”

She seemed to snap out of her daze a little.  Her eyes focused on him, and her lips shifted into something that could have been a smile.  “Sure.”

He tossed the bloodied cloth he’d used to dry his hands and came back to her.  He crouched in front of her.  “What’s going on?”

“Aside from the obvious?” she asked wryly, trying to mask just how shaken she was.  For once he could see that, clear as day.

He smiled and nodded.  “Aside from the obvious.”

She swallowed and looked down, hesitant.  There was something raw there, something vulnerable.  He didn’t know whether to be concerned or relieved.  Truth be told, he was both.  “I, um…  I really messed up back there.”

“What do you mean?”

She sniffed, rubbing a reddened hand across her nose a moment.  “I cut him loose.”

“Halliday?”

She nodded.  Paused.  Then shook her head.  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she conceded.  “I should have known better than to trust that he wouldn’t turn on me the minute I did.  I knew he was unstable, and I let my… _compassion_ …”  She said that like the word was a foreign thing.  A foreign concept.  “I let my feelings get the better of me, I guess.”

That seemed to be a silly thing to be maudlin about.  “Compassion’s not a weakness,” he said, “or a mistake.”  She stared at him, doubtful, and he offered a gentle, appreciative smile.  It had been her compassion that had saved him, too.  Sure, getting him through that flashback to escape the tank had been imperative to her own survival, but joking and smiling and making light of it afterward, _carrying_ him through those dark and difficult minutes after emerging from that hell…  That had been compassion.  The act of a friend, not just a stranger trying to save her own skin or see her mission completed.  Whatever concerns she had about this side of her, which was perhaps a new side that she hadn’t experienced before, she didn’t need to have them.  But he didn’t say that.  He didn’t know her well enough to.  He just kept grinning and nudged her gently with his elbow.  “Besides, now we’re even.”

Natasha looked at him a little incredulously.  “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“How did you…”  She shook her head.  A small shudder wracked her slight form as she glanced to the open door.  A deep breath grounded and emboldened her enough to continue.  “It happened so fast.  There was no way you could have caught me unless you…”  Her eyes widened, and her face slackened in shocked realization.

Steve gave a bit of a wince and a sheepish smile.  He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out the Eye.  He’d snatched it up the second it had fallen from Halliday’s hand, and he hadn’t let it out of his sight since.  He inspected it again as it rested on his outstretched palm.  Such a tiny, simple thing.  Now, though, he could feel its power like it was a tangible force, a weight that went far, far beyond its unassuming size.  “You know what’s scary about mad scientists?  A lot of the time they’re right.”

“Rogers…”  It was more than obvious that she had no idea what to say.  Frankly, neither did he.  The entire experience hadn’t really sunk into him yet.  That he’d _traveled through time_.  Gone into the past a few minutes to alter the future.  He was the only one who knew about it, who’d experienced it.  The only one in existence who’d known those few minutes where Natasha had fallen to her death.  People would think he was crazy.  It was mind-blowing, unbelievable save for the fact that it had actually happened.  It defied everything he’d thought was fixed and immutable about life and the universe in which they lived.  The vast implications were astounding.  Terrifying.

And the power this tiny stone represented was immeasurable.

In the silence that followed, they both just stared at it, her shocked into a stupor, him reeling from the reality of it.  Then she chuckled hoarsely.  “Does this make you worthy of the gods?”

He laughed, too, closing his fingers around the gem and standing gingerly.  “Lucky is what it makes me.”  He turned away, walking to the open door where the new day was bright and blue.  He stared out at the wisps of low-lying clouds just beyond the plane, feeling anything but at peace.  Numb, but not settled.  He felt her eyes track him, watch him.  Taking him apart.

And then she said the very thing that had been plaguing him since he’d saved her.  “You know what you could do with it.”  He closed his eyes.  “Don’t you?”

He knew.  He’d been thinking of nothing else.  The Eye _worked_ , and he could use it to go back.  Return to 1945.  Change the end of the war.  Alter his fate.  Stop the Red Skull before the _Valkyrie_ had ever left the ground.  Save Bucky.  He could save himself, too, just as he’d saved Natasha.  Go back to the life he’d lost.  The Commandos.  His friends and family.  Back to Bucky.  Back to Peggy.  _He could go back._

He was right on the edge, watching the world below from the clouds above again, and he could make a different choice.

But…  He didn’t recall much of what he’d seen when he’d been inside the Eye.  He knew there’d been things, things he should have remembered, but he couldn’t now.  It had all been so harrowing and overwhelming, so _fast_ that nothing had sunk into his brain.  He thought about it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see what he’d seen again.  It was all lost to him, like seconds fading into the fabric of time.

Except for one thing.

Steve swallowed through a tight throat.  His eyes burned.  That feeling of his heart breaking…  That he remembered.  And it hurt as much now as it had then.  Still, as he stood there, the pain started to recede a little.  It was undeniable, inevitable.  He hadn’t let himself see it until now, until it had been inexplicably forced in front of his eyes.  The Eye had shown him the truth.  He couldn’t go back.  There was no place for him there.  He’d been lost, and the world had gone on without him.  They had all let him go.  As they had had to.

And he had to, as well.  He wasn’t meant to be there.  He couldn’t just selfishly go back, disrupt _everything_ simply because he wanted to.  He couldn’t do that.  It wasn’t right.  That wasn’t who he was.  Even if no one else would ever know, ever even realize what he had done…  He couldn’t take Peggy’s happiness away from her.  Her life wasn’t his to change.

He turned around finally and settled his eyes on Natasha.  She was watching him patiently, eyes soft and expression open as if she was waiting for him.  Steve sighed and looked down at the Eye, battling the sharp, sharp pain in his chest.  He breathed through it.  Just like she’d told him to.  In and out.  Deep, deep breaths.  “Sometimes…”  His voice failed him, so throaty and thick with hurt.  He swallowed and managed to get it under control.  “Sometimes things happen,” he finally said.  “You just have to have faith that you’re ending up where you’re supposed to be.”

She stared at him but said nothing.  Steve closed his eyes again, forcing himself to keep breathing.  This was where he was.  For better or worse, this was where he needed to stay.  This world, the _future_ , was crazy and dark and dangerous, but some things never changed.  And he could do some good here.  As an Avenger.  As a SHIELD agent.

As Captain America.  He glanced at his shield where it rested against the bulkhead, bathed in the morning light and shining every bit as brightly as the Eye.  He was Captain America.  For better or worse, he had to keep fighting.

He heard rustling and small breath of pain.  Then she was up and limping toward him.  She stood beside him and stared with him out at the vast and endless spread of sky and earth.  She was close, calm but silent.  Pensive.  Unafraid, though.  He was glad for that.  “So what do you want to do with it?”

He tightened his hand around the gem.  The answer was obvious.  “It’s too dangerous for anyone to have.  Too powerful.”  She didn’t argue with that.  “Someone could do a great deal of good with it.  Or a great deal of damage.”  _And it might be impossible to tell which is which._

“SHIELD could keep it safe,” she quietly offered.  In the wake of recent events, of SHIELD losing the Tesseract to the Loki and causing an alien invasion, even she couldn’t make that sound realistic.  She knew it, too, offering him a wan smile.  He returned much the same.  She cocked an eyebrow and shrugged.  “It’s your call, Captain.  I can keep a secret.”

He nodded, touched by her faith in him to do the right thing.  “Thanks.”

She held his gaze a moment more.  He still couldn’t read her, not entirely, but there was respect there.  Admiration.  She finally leaned closer, closer until she was lifting her face to kiss his cheek.  It was a simple thing, a nothing, really, a chaste brush of her lips to him.  But it felt good.  Good and warm.  She pulled away, giving a gentle, sweet smile that seemed to communicate what she couldn’t say.

Then she turned and started to limp toward the cockpit.  Pretty soon they’d rendezvous with the helicarrier, and this would all be over.  Steve turned back to the view outside.  Below the clouds there was green and brown.  The jungles and plains of eastern Africa.  And a huge, sparkling lake, silvery and glassy in the sun.

“It’s blue.”

He turned at her voice.  “What’s that?”

“My favorite color.”  She was looking right at his eyes.  “Blue.”

That surprised him.  He couldn’t tell if she was lying or teasing.  Or flirting.  He didn’t care.  He liked it, whatever it was.  “Blue’s a nice color.”

“Yes, it is.”  She let her gaze linger a moment more before turning and heading on her way.

Alone again, Steve sighed.  He wanted to think otherwise, but he knew this wasn’t going to so easily bring him the closure he wanted.  This wasn’t going to be the end.  Not the end to his grief, to his struggle to move on, to his difficulties in adapting to his new and crazy world.  In some ways, this was only the beginning.  But he felt like he had the strength to take that first step now.  He lifted his hand and gave the Eye a last, long look.  There was color swirling within it.  Power.  A road he couldn’t take.  A road _no one_ could take.  It was surprisingly easy to close his fingers around it.

And it was surprisingly easy to let it go.  The gem sailed through the air after he threw it, sparkling and glowing beautifully as the sun caught it.  It tumbled in a graceful arc toward the lake far below them.  He watched it until he couldn’t see it anymore, until it hit the water and sank down to the bottom where no one would ever be able to find it.  Then he looked up into the clouds, the wind rushing over him.  It wasn’t cold now.  He inhaled again.  Exhaled.  Breathed again.  And again.  Nice and deep until the pain was quiet and his heart was sure.  “Make sure it stays where it is this time,” he murmured.  Fate.  Destiny.  Whatever powers that were.  They’d brought him here.  This was the path he was on.

He picked up his shield and went to join her.


	10. Chapter 10

The infirmary aboard the helicarrier was quiet.  Normally that didn’t bother Natasha much, but today the silence was irritating.  She’d been stuck there since they’d been returned from the mission.  The doctors had insisted she stay, although she’d refused at first until Fury had made it an order.  As much as she didn’t like to admit it, she knew they were all correct.  She needed the time to rest, to recuperate.  The gunshot wound to her shoulder wasn’t too much of a hindrance; it hadn’t even required surgery, and at this point it was just a source of tenderness and frustration.  Her doctors suspected, given her resilience, there likely wouldn’t be any lasting damage.  The injury to her thigh, however, was more troublesome.  They’d done an operation to repair the lacerated muscle and improve circulation, but even with that and physical therapy, they were predicting it would be a good four to six weeks before she regained a full use of her leg.  That was a bit upsetting, but considering she’d nearly tumbled hundreds of feet to her death, she supposed she should simply be thankful.

And she was.  Like shame, gratitude was an emotion she had a difficult time understanding and expressing.  Clint had been helping her with it over the last few years, teaching her that there was inherent worth in trust and loyalty, and that saving someone’s life warranted appreciation.  She didn’t know how she felt about it all, honestly.  The mission with Rogers had at once been completely extraordinary and somehow almost run-of-the-mill.  She’d been in plenty of situations just as bad as or even worse than what she and Steve had gone through together.  With Clint, she had barely escaped so many dangerous scrapes with her life, often injured more seriously than she was now.  Budapest.  Tehran.  Azerbaijan.  Countless others.  This was no different.  The job was done, completed to the best of their ability, and now there was inevitable fall-out.  That would dissipate with time, and they would all recover, ultimately unchanged and ready to face the next assignment.  That was who she was, what she did as an assassin and a SHIELD agent.  This was simply the end of another mission.

But it was more than that, too.  In the day she’d spent convalescing in the eerie quiet, she’d had far too much time to think.  Again, this was something with which she struggled at times.  She’d been trained _not_ to think, to brush it all off like a machine and reset to baseline.  There was no need to consider the particulars of what had happened, the details or the collateral damage, the implications, emotional or otherwise.  SHIELD had people on staff to deal with the consequences of tough missions.  She never used them.  In her past, the difficulty of the operation itself or the outcomes of it never mattered.  Here and now, she couldn’t shake the things she was feeling.  One of those was guilt.  There was the slightly more rational aspect of that, that she’d made a costly mistake with Halliday when the moment had been the direst.  She’d set herself up to fall, literally and figuratively.  Rogers had been adamant that giving someone the benefit of the doubt was never a poor decision, but she knew otherwise.  Halliday was on his way to prison now, not for murder (no one knew exactly what had happened aboard that plane, and she intended to keep it that way) but for assault, attempted murder, conspiracy, and a host of other charges of which one would not dream a man of his like capable.  What was done was done.  That didn’t do much to ameliorate the shame eating at her.

However, the guilt from being undeniably sloppy didn’t compare to the guilt she felt over what Rogers had done for her.  Again, no one knew what she knew.  And she knew he knew things he was keeping from her.  What he’d gone through to put himself at exactly the right place at precisely the right time to catch her.  What he’d seen after she’d fallen.  What he’d seen with the gem.  Whatever it was, she could see it had touched him.  Hurt him.  Healed him, somehow, at the same time.  She didn’t pry because it wasn’t her business, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.  The enormity of what he’d sacrificed wasn’t lost on her.  He could have used the Eye to go back to his own time, to reclaim and repair the life he’d given up to save the world.  He could have taken that opportunity and simply _left_ , left her dead.  Changed the world whatever way he saw fit.

But he hadn’t.  He was a better man than anyone she knew.  She’d been intimidated by him before; she could admit that to herself in the wake of everything they’d experienced together.  Now it was worse _and_ better.  Better because she knew him now, knew more of the man beneath the mantle of Captain America than most people did.  But worse because no matter how she tried to make herself think otherwise, she feared in her heart he’d done it for her.  Perhaps he hadn’t directly sacrificed his chance to reclaim his lost life for her, but the implication was there, and she couldn’t ignore it.  He wouldn’t chance endangering the past and altering the future for himself, for what he wanted and needed and deserved, but he would _for her._

She didn’t know what she thought about that, despite the fact that she’d spent the last twenty-four hours doing nothing but mulling it over.  She didn’t want it.  That was one thing of which she was absolutely certain.  She didn’t _want_ him taking care of her.  It made her feel so uncomfortable and annoyed she could hardly stand it.  Who did he think he was, making that kind of call?  All the times he’d saved her life during this fiasco…  _This_ had been the worst.  The most shameful.  The most damning.  The most _aggravating_ because of what he’d given up to do it.  And yet…  She wouldn’t acknowledge it – she’d _never_ acknowledge it – but a small part of her was so honored that she simply didn’t know what to make of it.  He thought her _worthy_ of that.  That made her proud, made her feel good about herself in a way she didn’t understand but certainly enjoyed.  It made her feel good in a way she’d never felt before.  Clint had certainly made sacrifices on her behalf in the past, but this was something else entirely.  She couldn’t explain it.  In the quiet places of her heart, though, her heart that she’d thought long damaged and silenced and closed off, she felt warm and wanted.  _Respected._

That was…  It was _nice._

Still, the whole thing was simply unsettling in ways she’d never anticipated.  A simple mission, but not.  A new partner, but not.  A seemingly innocent client, but not.  And a simple jewel, but not.  The entirety of it felt far too intimate, but _nothing intimate had happened._ It was too much to digest, too much to take in.  And she was sick of waiting for someone to come to her and tell her what to think about it.  She felt a little weightless.  As an assassin, a tool wielded by others for their own ends, it typically wasn’t her place to have an opinion.  As a SHIELD agent, she’d learned her input and thoughts were valuable, but she still sometimes had difficulty forming and expressing them.  And as a person…  Part of her wanted to brush this all aside, dismiss it and forget it and do exactly what she’d promised herself she’d do when she left DC a few days ago with an unwanted Steve Rogers at her side.  The other part of her…

She wanted him to come to her.  She wanted to see him because she was having a hard time convincing herself that it was over.

He did come finally.  Later that afternoon, after another long series of hours spent getting frustrated with her solitude and her complete inability to get out of bed, let alone do anything for herself, he showed up at her door.  A group of doctors and nurses were just leaving, reminding her yet again that she needed to take things easy for a while.  He smiled at their admonishments, waiting for them to pass before coming inside.  “Always hate that.”

“What?  Being an invalid or being told to be okay with being an invalid?” she groused.  It was hard to keep her emotions under check.  For all that she’d wanted him to come, she was uncomfortable now under the analytical light of his eyes.  Weak and exposed and off her game.  She sat up, but her wounded leg utterly refused to move and her shoulder hurt, so it was a challenge.

“Both.”  She could tell he was thinking about coming closer and helping her like it was a visible aura clinging to him.  But he didn’t.  He seemed as uncertain as she felt.  He looked good.  Very good.  His face had healthy color to it.  His hair was neatly brushed and he’d shaved.  Even in that short period of time, she’d gotten so used to him filthy and sweat-soaked that seeing him clean and nicely dressed in a pair of SHIELD issue warm-up pants and sweatshirt seemed out of place.  All signs of the injuries he’d sustained were well on their way to fading, nothing more than faint lines and yellowy splotches that were barely noticeable on his face and arms.  She couldn’t help but be a tad jealous at that, that the serum allowed him to heal so quickly and so completely.  Still, he was limping a little, taking measured and tender steps, as he approached her bed.  “How are you doing?”

She caught herself staring before he did.  “Alright,” she answered, colder maybe than she intended.  It was something of a knee-jerk reaction.  She was realizing that more and more, particularly with him.  “You?”

He wasn’t off-put.  “Alright.”  An awkward quiet came between them.  He didn’t make any move to sit down.  She didn’t invite him to.  For all they’d gone through together, this felt… new.  Like they were on the other side of something monumental, and neither of them knew what to do about it.  Something told her that he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her what to think.  How could he be?  He’d been the one to make her _think_ and _feel_ in the first place, the one who’d pierced her masks and layers and disarmed her.  And the damn idiot didn’t even realize it.

Eventually he managed a grin, nervously stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants like he didn’t know what to do with them.  “So…”

“So what?”

“Are all SHIELD missions like that?” he asked.  There was a coy tone to his voice that suggested he was teasing her.  It wasn’t just teasing, though.  He was genuinely interested.  And he was trying to ease the tension between them, deferring to something she knew, something he knew would make her more comfortable.

She smiled, secretly touched.  “Pretty much.”  He bit his lower lip and nodded, looking down at his feet.  She cocked an eyebrow.  “Why?  Having second thoughts about all of this?”

He raised his gaze again.  “Nah,” he said after a beat.  “I just like knowing what I’m getting into.”

For some reason, that was a relief.  That brief thought of him changing his mind and walking away from SHIELD hadn’t been pleasant.  But before she could say anything further, there was more noise at the door.  Steve turned, pulling his hands from his pockets respectfully as Fury entered.  “Sir.”

“Captain,” the SHIELD Director greeted.  His face was fixed into its usual impassive expression.  “Recovering, I see?”

Steve nodded firmly.  The soldier was back, so easily overtaking the man she’d inexplicably come to know over the last few days.  “Yes, sir.  Good as new in a day or two.”

Fury was pleased with that.  “Excellent.  If you’re feeling up to it, Hill’s ready for debriefing.  She’s waiting for you up in her office.  Think you can find your way there?”

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly at the ribbing.  “I can manage.”  It was pretty obvious Fury was trying to get rid of him, and he was astute enough to realize it.  He didn’t seem troubled by that at all, though, turning to offer Natasha another smile.  He was close enough to the bed to drop a hand on her leg.  The contact was oddly electrifying.  “Get some rest, Agent Romanoff.”

Odder than that was the fact that she didn’t want him to leave.  Of course, that never reached her face, but she was far more willing to let herself accept it.  Rogers closed the door behind him as he exited, and Fury waited until the soft sound of his footsteps getting softer still indicated he’d walked away.  Then the SHIELD Director came over, pulling a plastic and metal chair from the room’s little table and dragging it to the side of the bed.  He sat without preamble.  “When I told you to teach Rogers how to be a SHIELD agent,” he said with a groan as he settled, “I was hoping you’d do it with a bit more discretion.”

Fury could be scathing with his insults because they were so well hidden.  She knew him well enough to recognize this wasn’t one.  “It is the better part of valor,” she responded blithely.

“One mission and the two of you managed to cause an international ruckus at a foreign airport that resulted in the deaths of dozens of people, not to mention a great deal of property damage.  Not what I would call subtle.”  This was spoken more tensely, enough to suggest that he wasn’t entirely happy with the outcome but not that he was holding her accountable.  “Luckily for us, Rego’s contact there was a drug smuggler embedded in a corrupt military organization within Cameroon’s local government.  Another bad apple.  So Douala’s more than happy to forgive your little _indiscretion._ ”

“Next time I’ll let them get away,” she returned.  Few would have the gall to speak to Fury this way, and they both knew why.  She was his best agent, his best asset.  And he couldn’t afford to lose her.  “Look, you’re the one who wanted us to work together.”

He chuckled ruefully.  “I suppose that’s true enough.”

“And subtle is not a word I associate with Captain America.”

“No, it’s not.”  He seemed surprised at her response.  Truth be told, she was a bit, too.  It wasn’t so much what she was saying but the way she was saying it.  She could hear it in her own voice.  There was no bitterness, no venom, not the sort of indignant disrespect she’d had back in his office in DC.  Fury stared at her, his eyes narrowed in thought.  She knew he was reading her, judging, comparing who she was now with who’d she been before they’d left and looking for the differences.  She knew they were there, even if she wanted to hide them and pretend they weren’t.  Fury sighed.  “I can handle the authorities on this, appease the Council if they get their panties in a wad.  But I need to know one thing, and I want to know it from you.”  Like this was a secret conversation and there could possibly be unwanted or unseen ears listening in (which seemed extremely unlikely, given who they were and where they were), he leaned forward, his leather jacket crinkling as he did.  “What happened to the 084?”

Even though she masked it expertly, Natasha hesitated.  As uncertain as she’d been about everything else since they’d made it back to SHIELD, _this_ had been pretty sadly inevitable.  They’d been sent to recover an item whose value could be immeasurable and whose nature was unknown and perhaps hazardous.  No matter how many pirates they’d killed or corrupt militiamen they’d stopped, in that regard they’d stupendously failed in their objectives.  They’d come back completely empty-handed.  And the truth was…  Well, she wasn’t willing to let the truth be known.  She trusted SHIELD.  She trusted Fury.  But Rogers was right; _no one_ should have the capacity to reshape the past or change the future.  She’d said the same herself.  It was too dangerous, too tempting.  Bad guys, certainly, but those well-meaning as well.  The road to hell was paved with good intentions.  Trite nonsense, but true more often than not.  No one was capable of the restraint necessary not to abuse that power.

Well, almost no one.

And that was the heart of it.  It was the simple fact that Steve had done exactly what she’d thought impossible.  Worthiness of the gods, will of the gods…  She didn’t know or care what that meant.  But she knew he was worthy of her respect.  She’d said she trusted him to make the right choice.  He’d made that choice.  Considering there was perhaps no one else in the world right now who better deserved the chance to go back and remake his past and that person had quite literally thrown that chance away, she didn’t feel right dishonoring his wishes.  So she told the truth without saying anything at all.  “Once we acquired the 084, we realized it potentially had some dangerous properties.”

“Dangerous properties,” Fury repeated, his eye critical and his voice unimpressed.  “Halliday’s been ranting like a madman since we took him into custody.  He claims the stone he found, this Eye of Ra, can manipulate time.”

So much for playing dumb.  Not that that sort of thing normally worked with Fury, anyway.  “He did say that,” she conceded.  “And he was obsessed and out of his mind, crazy enough to hire a pirate crew to steal the 084 which resulted in the deaths of a lot of innocent people.  It’s difficult to trust anything that he said.”

Fury saw through her obfuscation, of course.  “Where is it, Agent Romanoff?”

“Captain Rogers was the last person to see it,” she replied.  It wasn’t a lie.

“He says that things got out of control and it was lost during the flight.  He doesn’t know where.”

Natasha set her jaw and narrowed her eyes.  “If that’s what he says.  I was bordering on shock.  My memories aren’t very clear.”  He saw through that, too.  He wasn’t the world’s best spy for nothing.  In the silent moment that followed, though, Natasha held her ground.  She thought it might be harder to do; she owed Nick Fury quite a bit as well, and this felt akin to betrayal.  But it wasn’t.  “It seems to me if you want Captain America working for SHIELD, you need to be prepared that he might make his own decisions, decisions that you might not like.  That’s who he is.”

For a moment, she feared she’d gone too far.  What she’d said was true, and Fury was being ignorant and naïve if he thought anyone could change Steve Rogers from who he was into someone willing to skirt the shadows and bend the rules and use the ends to justify the means.  Still, no matter how correct that was, throwing it into Fury’s face probably wasn’t wise.

Fury just stared at her, though, measuring as he had been before.  She held her ground.  When he realized he wasn’t going to get an answer from her (or he’d gotten the answer he’d wanted – she wasn’t sure which), he sighed and pushed himself to his feet.  “Well, Rogers is still here.  I’d think if the rock could actually make someone travel through time, he’d have been long gone and we’d be none the wiser.”  _One would think._   Not her, though.  She knew better.  “Get yourself back on your feet, Romanoff.  There’s still a lot of work to do.”  It was very like Fury to say that.  There was never much room for pleasantries with him, for rest or recuperation.  The mission, SHIELD’s mission, was always foremost in his mind.  Protecting that mission.  Seeing it succeed.

What he said next, though, was decidedly not like him.  “And if you want out like you said you did, now’s the time.  I’m sending Rogers out with the STRIKE Team next week.  They need a new CO, and that might be a better fit for him.”  _A better fit._   Better than her.  “I’ll reassign you both if that’s what you want.”  Fury paused at the door of her room to look back at her.  “But it seems to me you two hit it off pretty well.”  How could he know that?  How could he read her so well?  And was it even true?  “At least enough not to kill each other.”  He smiled knowingly, smugly, like he’d anticipated something she hadn’t figured out yet.  After that, he left.  She was alone again, and she was even more uncertain of what to think – _of what she wanted_ – than she had been before.

* * *

A few days later, they were back at the Triskelion.  And a few days after that, Natasha found herself embroiled in physical therapy for her leg.  She was so sick of laying around and waiting that she threw herself into it whole-heartedly.  She wasn’t keen on being derailed for long.  The doctors insisted it would take her a month or more to get back to active duty.  She firmly believed she could do it in less, and she tolerated no doubt, not from them or from herself.  So she went at it, working herself tired and sweaty, strengthening the damaged muscle as much as she could stand.  Lifting weights.  Relearning her balance.  Accounting for the differences.  Standing and then walking and then running.  Jumping.  It was probably too much too soon, but she didn’t let the chastisements of the therapists and physicians deter or aggravate her.  She was Black Widow, and a little injury like this was nothing.

More than that, though, and this she couldn’t even begin to accept let alone admit, she didn’t like the thought that Steve was out there with the STRIKE Team.  Out there on missions without her, and she’d been left behind.  They’d barely been together for more than a couple days.  It was ridiculous that she felt any sort of connection with him.  Completely ridiculous.  It wasn’t like they were friends.  It wasn’t like they were even partners.  Fury had told her she could walk away, and she should.  Yes, they’d worked pretty damn well together in the end.  And, yes, they’d “hit it off” (whatever Fury meant by that – she still didn’t know).  But that didn’t mean anything.  The Director was right.  Rogers was better suited for a team environment, and the STRIKE Team was maybe a bit harsh, but he’d fought in World War II, as he’d so aptly reminded her.  He could handle himself.  And he’d learn from them for certain.  There was no better outfit in the world for first-strike, special ops.  They were experts in going in, eliminating the threat, and getting the job done.  Captain America would be a phenomenal asset to them.

And she could go back to what she’d left behind.  Rejoin Barton.  Their partnership would be reaffirmed.  Once he got himself clear of medical, they’d be back out there, doing what they’d both been trained to do as assassins and spies.  It would be as if this little hiccup had never happened.  She worked herself hard, those thoughts stampeding through her head as her feet pounded on treadmills and beating with her heart as she worked herself limber and powerful again.  Everything would go back to normal in short order.  The Battle of New York had changed the world, but here and now, in all the ways that mattered, she was still Black Widow.  She was untouched.  Everything was as it was.

 _Sure it is._  She was so good at what she did that nobody would find out that she was checking in on Rogers.  In the week that passed since returning to DC, she secretly and diligently followed the status of the mission he was on with the STRIKE Team.  She told herself it was simply because she was interested, curious, and that it was her responsibility to check on his progress.  The team was outside of Kabul, dealing with a troublesome terrorist cell that had gotten a hold of some Chitauri weaponry.  Field reports were arriving at the command center, and everything looked good.  The op was proceeding very well.  No problems.  No casualties.  Steve was impressing the hell out of Agent Rumlow, if the notes coming in for Agent Sitwell were any indication.  And she was so adept at hiding her feelings that nobody knew how relieved she was at that.  Not even she did.  Rogers was in his element it seemed, recovering from their ordeal with apparently no lasting effects (although, even though she hadn’t mentioned it in her reports out of respect for his privacy, she knew he couldn’t have simply _gotten over_ that flashback he’d had.  She’d briefly considered mentioning her concerns about his PTSD to Fury or the doctors in charge of Rogers’ case, but she’d decided against it.  If someone had done that to her, well…  She wouldn’t have been too pleased, to say the least).  He was fine, for all intents and purposes.  So was she.  And that was that.

_Sure it is._

One  evening, she emerged from her quest to race through her recovery to attend a meeting in the Triskelion’s command center with Sitwell and a few other operatives.  It was about some sort of trivial, logistical matter concerning how reports were being logged; Sitwell usually had a stick up his ass when it came to that sort of thing, and he liked listening to himself lecture about his own fiefdom.  She had an ulterior motive for bothering with it; the STRIKE Team was due back that day, and she wanted to find out if they’d arrived yet.  They had, a few hours ago in fact.  Satisfied, she listened to Sitwell drone, pretending to care but mostly pretending that she wasn’t suffering from one hell of a conflicted storm of emotions.  She wanted to make sure Rogers was okay.  _Of course he’s okay._   She wanted to see him.  _No, you don’t._   She hadn’t since that brief visit in the infirmary, and even though only a week had passed since, she…  _I don’t miss him._

Irritated at herself, she cast that all aside and focused on getting back to work.  She was on her way down to the gym, waiting for the elevator and not thinking, when the doors to the lift finally opened and revealed Clint.  “Nat,” he said softly.  He’d been deep in thought himself.  She could tell by the way his face immediately loosened in surprise.

She didn’t know what to say.  It took a lot to render her speechless, but for some reason, this fairly mundane moment had managed it.  “Hi,” she finally offered.  Clint took a step to the left to allow her to enter.  She hesitated, although she didn’t know why.  Clint seemed better than he had when she’d seen him last.  He had a tad more color to his face.  No one else would have noticed the difference, but she did.  There was the shadow of afternoon stubble on his jaw, but he otherwise looked hale.  His hair was neatly brushed and spiked, and he wore a SHIELD uniform.  His eyes had some vigor to them again.  He looked the same as he always did, strong and confident.  Capable and pragmatic.  But somehow he seemed… different.  Not in a way she could name or even clearly identify.

He gave a shadow of a smile.  “You getting on, or are you waiting for the next one?” he joked.

Natasha flushed in annoyance, more with herself than with him, and stepped onto the elevator.  “Infirmary,” she coolly commanded. The computer’s calm, feminine voice confirmed her order, and the lift started to descend.  The silence that followed was anything but comfortable.  This was the first time in a long time that she didn’t know what to say to him.  There was the guilt again.  Guilt for leaving Clint behind.  For not noticing how he’d been suffering in the days since Loki had taken him.  For not _helping_ him.  It didn’t matter that he seemed well, perhaps recovering himself.  He was still her partner, and she hadn’t been there for him.  It was a niggling, irritating thing, like a bug buzzing around her face, but she didn’t feel right swatting it away.  “I’m sorry that I haven’t been around to see you.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been around to see you, either,” Clint answered.  “Fury’s got me helping the eggheads document the effects of Loki’s staff.”

Natasha quirked an eyebrow in surprise, not so much that SHIELD was investigating that but that Clint was willing to be involved in it.  “Yeah?” she asked, not wanting to press but wanting more of a feel for how he was taking that.

Clint shrugged, folding his arms across his chest.  “Yeah.  Been out to the Fridge a couple of times.  It’s something to do at least, and my therapist thinks it might ‘help me come to terms’, whatever the hell that means.  Apparently it should make me feel better to understand it and get some closure out of it.”  He grunted, his eyes distant.  “Better than sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I suppose.”  There was still a great deal of bitterness in his voice.  “How are you doing, by the way?”

Natasha shifted her weight off her weaker leg.  “Alright.  They say it’ll take another few weeks to be back to normal.”

He laughed a little.  “Yeah.  Well, I’m sure you’ll get there way before then.”  There wasn’t a speck of doubt in his voice.  He sounded a bit like he had before New York, a sadder, more defeated version, but still reminiscent of the man she’d known.  The awkward quiet threatened to return, but he was the one who stopped it.  “How did your mission with the Cap go?    I heard you ended up in one hell of a mess.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it with him.  It felt wrong to.  “Fine.”

“How was working with him?”

“Decent.”

Clint finally turned to look at her, dropping his arms.  He smirked good-naturedly.  “Wow.  If fighting alongside Captain America is only ‘decent’ in your book, I wonder where I rank.”

His self-deprecating joke didn’t make her feel better if that was its intent, and she wasn’t sure it had been.  “Clint,” she warned, shaking her head.

“No.  You know what?  It’s alright.”  He released a long breath, lifting his chin a little.  “I’m out.  For a while, anyway.”  There was acceptance in his voice.  She could hear it, even though she didn’t want to.  She really didn’t want to.  And the acceptance, though tired and not entirely heartfelt, was stronger than the bitterness.  Than the inclination to _fight_ this.  “I gotta let it go.  I gotta face the fact that I’m not the same guy I was before that bastard got his hands in my head.”

“Clint–”

“Not sure I can be that guy again,” he said solemnly.  Beneath the sadness, though, she heard strength.  His strength that he always had.  For her and for himself.  He sniffed and looked down at his hands.  “So it’s alright.  Things will change.  You should move on.  It’ll be good for you to work with someone else for a while.  Rogers would be good for you.”

She didn’t want to move on.  She didn’t want Rogers.  She’d been Clint’s partner for _five years._   Everything she was today, all the progress she’d made to erase the sins of her past…  It was because of him.  It was because he’d saved her, rescued her from the life she’d been living, given her a chance when anyone else would have killed her then and there for the crimes she’d committed.  She owed him too much to just walk away from him.  “I don’t want to move on.”

“I said it’s alright.”  His tone wasn’t harsh, but it definitely suggested his choice wasn’t open for debate.  “For better or worse, this is how it is.  And I’m okay with it.  Once I get passed this, we can work together again.  But I can’t be out there with you if I can’t keep my head in the game.  It’s not fair to you.  You need a partner who’s your equal, who can keep up with you.  I can’t.  Not like this.  Not when I’m… whatever I am now.”

She didn’t like the sound of any of this.  “You’re Hawkeye.”

“I will be again, I think,” Clint agreed, “but I’m not yet.  I’m compromised, Nat.”  She wanted to yell at him, shake him to get some sense into his head.  All the times in their past that he’d forbidden her to quit, forced her to keep fighting to remake herself even when she’d been tired and frustrated and daunted…  It was like she was back in that hallway outside Fury’s office, watching him walk away, wanting to argue and fight for him and defend him but knowing it was a losing battle because he wasn’t fighting for himself.

 _No._   She didn’t count herself overly proficient at things like this, but she understood the truth.  He wasn’t quitting really.  He was simply taking a different road.  A road she couldn’t walk with him right now, at least not in the way she wanted to.  _No._ That didn’t make it easier to accept.  He kept going.  “So you need to move on, because you worked hard to get where you are.  We both did.  And I’m not taking you down with me.”

Again, she didn’t know what to say.  She didn’t know whether to be angry or sad or betrayed or just damn frustrated.  In the end, she was all of that.  And none of it, too.  “I…”

The elevator dinged at Clint’s floor.  “Don’t worry about me,” he said.  Again, the sad smile.  “I’ll be alright.  Nothing lasts forever, right?”

The doors slid open.  She grabbed his hand before he could walk away.  “I’m standing by you,” she said quietly, rushed because she wanted to get this out before she realized what she was promising.  So much of their relationship was grounded in their partnership.  Grounded in the job.  In respect for each other’s capability.  In trust in each other’s skills.  In him being the steady one, the one who taught and showed and let her take.  This was not that.  She didn’t know how to deal with change, let alone change this drastic.

But she needed to.  “I’m standing by you,” she swore again, “no matter what.  No matter what SHIELD thinks.”

“Didn’t expect any less,” he said with a genuine smile.  “Actually, I’d like to meet up.  Tomorrow, maybe?  Need an actual challenge in the ring.  And I want to hear more about what went down with Rogers.  You know, there was a pool going on that he wouldn’t survive his first mission with you.  Something about you devouring him.”

She couldn’t help her smile.  “How much did you have in it that I wouldn’t?”

“Enough to buy you lunch.” 

She laughed, but her heart ached.  Truly and deeply.  She wanted to tell him something to make this right, to make it better.  “Clint, when you’re back in the game–”

“Yeah.”  He knew what she was trying to say.  He always did.  And he didn’t seem sure of it, didn’t want to her to make a promise neither of them could keep.  His smile maybe faltered just a little, his eyes deep with pain he was trying to hide, and he pulled his hand loose from hers.  “See you around.”

She watched him walk away, wondering if this was his last act as her partner.  He was trying to push her in the right direction like he always had and always would, even if the right direction was away from him.

* * *

Natasha didn’t know where any of that left her, frankly.  She went back down to the gym, fully intending on diving back into training and therapy, on working harder and harder until she couldn’t think or feel anymore, at least not anything but the sting of sweat in her eyes and the burn of aching muscles.  She wanted numbness, apathy, the comfort of detachment.  She didn’t know how to find it, but beating something senseless seemed like a good place to start.  However, the sight of the empty workout room only amplified her feelings of being lost and uncertain.  Whether or not Clint was doing what he was doing for her, he was still out of the picture.  If he himself thought he needed time to recover from Loki’s brainwashing, then he needed time.  She had to respect that.  She had to abide by it.  No matter how much she wanted to go back to normal, it wasn’t going to happen.  Normal, it seemed, was gone forever.

Discouraged, she turned the lights back off in the workout room.  She stood there in the doorway, faltering, battered by such a storm of things she didn’t understand.  She was angry.  She was a tad betrayed, if she was honest with herself.  She was a tad abandoned, too.  She was hurting a great deal on Clint’s behalf.  But, as she lingered and let herself truly feel those things, none of that was as pressing as she’d thought it would be.  In actuality, underneath the layers of those emotions, she was… okay with this.  Maybe it was her training in the Red Room that dulled her feelings, like she was fundamentally incapable of experiencing anything too strongly.  Maybe it was that some part of her had realized the inevitability of it all back in that moment outside Fury’s office and she’d only been fooling and deluding herself since then that there’d been _any_ chance of this ending differently.  Maybe it was simply that she was stronger, and her time with Clint didn’t define her any more than her time in the Red Room.  Those were certainly possibilities.

But she knew why.  In the quiet places in her heart, she knew.

Surprisingly, once she decided to dispense with the nonsense she was trying to tell herself, it didn’t take much time or effort to find him.  He was down in the gym, too, in the main training facility.  This was located in one of the ancillary buildings of the Triskelion, where the new recruits were educated by the world’s best martial arts experts.  This was also where agents often came to sharpen their skills, to practice on one another.  She and Clint had taken to the rings many times in the past.  The massive room was nearly empty with the lateness of the hour, lights dimmed to a comforting golden glow.  It was so quiet she could hear Rogers well before she could see him.  The steady _thwack thwack_ of fists striking leather.  The rattling of chains.  The swish of workout pants.  The light, quick thuds of feet stepping on the mats.  She could even hear him breathing, a soft, even rhythm that spoke of effort but not exertion.  She paused when she finally did find him, paused to watch him work.

He was pounding a punching bag, pounding hard and fast.  The perfect muscles of his arms and back were shifting, contorting, and twisting with each quick strike, an elegant, coordinated display of raw power that was simultaneously intimidating and entrancing.  And beautiful, really.  He wore a thin gray shirt, SHIELD standard issue, which clung to him like a second skin and revealed everything as it rippled and pulled and stretched.  She stared unabashedly, her mind going back to the island, to watching him bathe in the lagoon, to feeling those arms around her the dozens of times they had been during their fight to escape the pirates.  She hadn’t even realized then that he’d been holding her, much less how much she’d liked it.  So much strength and courage.  So much determination.  She normally despised things like that, like being _protected_ , and honestly the thought made her heart clench and battle inwardly with itself over the mere fact of it, but she’d _liked_ being protected by him.  And she’d somehow forgotten since that moment at the lagoon that he was _this_ , innocent and pure and so perfect.  Golden splendor.  Unquantifiable merit that went far beyond his physical self.  Virtue and valor.  A heart bigger and more beautiful than she’d ever seen.  She’d forgotten how he _looked_ , what he _was_.  Not just Captain America.  Not even just a perfect soldier.  He was a good man, a clear, defined beacon of right in her world that was so completely filled with varying levels of wrong.

And as she stood there, watching him obliviously beat that bag, she realized she just couldn’t deny it anymore.  She wanted this.  She’d seen parts of him that no one else had, perhaps not physically (although maybe…) but certainly emotionally.  At least no one in this time.  She wanted _more_ of that.  More of those moments trapped on the island where they’d talked.  Where they’d fought side by side.  Where they’d argued and bickered and bantered and dug under each other’s skins.  Where they’d gotten too close, dangerously close, only to pull away and try to deny in some sort of aggravating, tantalizing dance.  It was crazy and she knew better, but that was what she wanted.

She wanted _him_.

And it was more than just physical attraction (though there was that.  There was that _in earnest_ ).  He’d been open with her, candid in a way that no one else ever had been.  And that had been empowering, but more than that, it had made her feel like she was _worthy_ to accept what he’d given her.  His trust.  She’d worked closely with Clint for five years, and she didn’t think he’d ever said that he trusted her.  He did, and she knew it, but he’d never been so blatant, so bold.  But Steve had been, in a moment when he’d been the most vulnerable.  That was ridiculously naïve and foolish, almost disgustingly so, but she couldn’t ignore the effect it was having on her.  That _he_ was having on her.  Maybe this was why she’d been so adamantly against partnering with him.  Maybe some part of her had seen this coming, and in a desperate act of self-preservation, she’d recoiled, spitting and clawing and driving him away.

Well, it was too late for that now.  She was there, watching him, entranced by the way he moved, the way he fought, the way he breathed, the way he lived.  Enamored with what he was.  And that hunger that had been pooling in the pit of her stomach since he’d waltzed into Fury’s office suddenly grew taut and undeniable.  She was Black Widow.  She controlled men, enslaved them, brought them to her beck and call.  She was a predator.  She _took_ what she wanted.  And she wanted him.  Now that she’d admitted it to herself, it was impossible to ignore.  The fact that it was so deliciously forbidden made it all that much more tempting.  She could see how hopeless he was, how lost in this world and lost in general around women.  The urge to use that, exploit it and exploit him, was nearly overwhelming.  She could conquer him, and he’d never even realize what was happening.  They were nothing alike, and like a spider in her web, she could lure him into her trap and have her way with him.  He trusted her, and that meant he was hers.  In whatever capacity she wanted.  _Lover._

But as soon as that thought eased its way through her mind, she dismissed it, revolted and almost horrified she could have thought it.  That was a novel thing, too, to find something so engrained into who she was so instantly and completely reprehensible.  She couldn’t do that to him.  She couldn’t use his ignorance against him.  She couldn’t use his trust in her against him.  Certainly it would tip the scales in her favor in every interaction they’d have from this moment forward, and certainly that was what she knew, how she conducted herself.  But it wasn’t right.  Perhaps she wouldn’t have thought twice before this mission, but now…

He said he’d wanted a friend.  _A friend._

Could she learn how to be a friend?

As sudden as that question came, she answered it.  _Yes._   For him, she could.  And would.  Whatever natural inclination she had, to build a relationship on sex and dangerous situations and stress and _power_ …  That wasn’t what she wanted here.  It was a faint thing, a timid thing she didn’t really understand, but she wanted to be what he wanted.  What he needed.  _For his sake._   She wanted to do this right, to do right by him. 

She wanted to be his partner.  His friend.

And watching him like this, like a seductress skulking in the shadows, wasn’t a very friendly thing to do.  So she stepped into the light.  “Hey.”

Steve stopped pulverizing the bag.  He turned around.  His was face aglow, glistening with perspiration.  His eyes were dark and deep, drawing her in, and he smiled.  “Oh, hey.”

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned her hip against the doorframe.  “You were pretty wrapped up in that.”

He shrugged, stepping away from the bag.  She knew firsthand how much force his punches packed; he’d been holding back, because his target was still in decent shape.  “Clears my head,” he said by way of an explanation.  It wasn’t much of one, but she decided not to press it.  “How are you doing?”

She didn’t like the awkwardness that was coming back.  “Fine.”

He walked over to a duffel bag that obviously belonged to him on the floor near one of the sparring rings.  Leaning over (and giving her a rather glorious view of his posterior – how could she still be so turned on by him after seeing him run around in only his underwear for the better part of a day?), he fished out a water bottle.  “How’s it going with your leg?”

“It’s going well,” she answered.  He unscrewed the cap and sucked the bottle dry.  Again.  Watching him drink was like getting drunk.  “I’ll be back out there soon.”

He seemed a little dubious, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.  “Fury reassign you already?”

She tipped her head noncommittally.  “How was your mission with the STRIKE Team?”

If he was bothered by her changing the subject without an answer, he didn’t show it.  He draped the towel across the back of his neck.  “Good.  They seem tough but like a good group.  I kinda felt like the only blunt instrument in a drawer full of knives.”  She smiled at that.  It was a pretty apt description.  “Gonna need to brush up on some stuff to hold my own.”

She let that go, because frankly, even though she’d come here to ask him one thing, it was hard to actually do it.  It felt like exposure, which she’d been trained to avoid at all costs.  “That might take a while,” she commented, pushing her hip off the door and strolling closer.

Steve sighed, squinting and looking around the otherwise darkened and empty gym like he was trying to find something.  “You’re not wrong about that,” he replied.  “Fury’s going to assign me someone to get me up to speed.  A crash course in the last seventy years.  It’s probably a good thing, because I have no idea where to even start.”

It was out before she even thought to pull it back.  “With me.”

“Huh?”

She smiled and came even closer.  “Are you doing anything fun Saturday night?”

He was so confused.  She liked the look on him, this flustered blush (that she now knew went gloriously far down his chest) like he couldn’t decide if she was flirting and what he should do about it if she was.  He gathered himself quickly, though.  “Well, all the guys in my barbershop quartet are dead, so no.  Not really.  Why?”

She smiled even more.  The snarky side of him wasn’t something she’d expected (or that any history book had really documented, for that matter – and it felt _just a bit_ like a secret, like something only she knew about him.  Even if that wasn’t true, she really liked thinking it).  “I just thought that if you want to learn, I’m willing to teach you.  The STRIKE Team’s good if you want to be a tool.  If you want to be an agent of SHIELD, though, you need to learn from the best.”  That was her mission, after all.  The one Fury had given her.  _Teach him how to be a SHIELD agent._   “And if you’re going to be my partner, you’re going to need to keep up with me.”

He just stared at her like he didn’t recognize her.  Truth be told, she didn’t entirely recognize herself.  “I thought you said this was never going to work.”  He was trying hard to keep his voice level, to keep his relief and happiness out of his tone, but she still heard it.

And it made her heart beat just a little faster.  “I’m still not convinced that it’s going to,” she replied smartly.  “But I’m willing to try.  After all, we made a pretty good team back there.”

“We did,” he agreed.

“And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Not terrible, but decent.  Kind of like _Gilligan’s Island_ , only with more mud, more guns, and more pirates.”  _And less clothing._

He chuckled.  “You know I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then case in point.  You need to learn.  I can teach you.  I can teach you history and pop culture and tech.  I can show you things that will blow your mind.”  He chuckled but not without some nervousness.  She liked that, too.  “You want to learn to fight like me?  I’ll teach you.  There are tons of styles you probably aren’t even aware of that you can learn.  Eastern techniques.  Parkour.”

His brow crinkled in confusion.  “Parkour?”

She looked up and down his muscular form.  “Something tells me you’d be really good at it.  You’re obviously not shy about throwing yourself off of things.  And you’re already pretty good at using your environment to your advantage if the way you throw around that shield of yours is any indication.”

“And you want to teach me all of this Saturday night.”

She really couldn’t help herself.  “I have a lot of things I want to teach you.”  The air in the room radically changed.  He just gawked at her, and, God, she needed to get a hold of this.  She couldn’t torture him (and herself), not for the long haul.  Not for however far this took them.  Clint was right; nothing lasted forever in their dangerous and difficult world.  But she was realizing more and more that she wanted _this_ to last.  And she wanted to be…  _You’re his friend.  Friendship.  He wants a friend._

That didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun.  And it was obvious to her that making him blush could very quickly become an addiction.  But she shoved that aside, hopping lithely up into the sparring ring.  “Come on.  I’ll show you some things.”

He was flabbergasted.  “What?  Now?”

“Now.”

“What about your leg?”

She coolly arched an eyebrow, setting her hands to her hips.  “You really think that’s going to stop me?”  He stared at her in a mixture of concern and astonishment before pursing his lips and jumping up into the ring.  He slipped between the ropes, standing a few feet away from her.  He looked a strange combination of eager to prove himself and a deer in headlights.  She smiled.  “Come at me.”  He lowered himself into a fighting stance, but still he hesitated.  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  “Come on.  Come at me.”

He winced like he was surrendering, and then he charged.  She’d seen him fight enough times to predict which steps and direction he would take, how he was going to come, where his weight and power would be.  And she countered so quickly and easily, trapping him with a simple yet inescapable hold and dropping him roughly.  He landed with an _oomf_ , and she straddled his chest and pinned his wrists before he could even think to stop her.

She looked down on him, on his heaving chest and reddening cheeks and slightly parted lips and eyes blown so wide that they were nearly black surrounded by a rim of blue.  This was dangerous.  So very dangerous.  And she _wanted_ …  Her heart was pounding.  _Really_ pounding.  She knew why.  In the quiet places in her heart, she _knew_.

Whether she could admit that to herself or not was a different story.

“Mind letting me up?” he asked in a soft, strained voice when the moment went on too long.  Never mind that he could completely overpower her if he wanted.  Never mind that.

She smoothly stood, confident that nothing she thought or felt had pierced her emotionless façade, and reached down a hand to help him up.  He stared at it and then at her, wondering.  Uncertain.  Wanting too, maybe.  Flustered and trying to find his footing.  A lock of hair was sticking to his brow with sweat, and he was grimacing.  But he took what she offered and climbed to his feet.  “You really like being right all the time, huh?”

“Just keep remembering that and you and I will get along great.”  She couldn’t help herself.  And she didn’t let go of his hand.  “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and he laughed.  “I actually understood that reference.”

“Knew you would.”

Shaking his head, he smiled.  “You’re not half bad, Romanoff.”

She smiled, too.  “Call me Natasha.”

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, folks! Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this story; I'm always so amazed and honored by the response I get from you guys. It's wonderful! Special thanks to korvik93 for all of our many talks about this story and its sisters. Also thanks to julia.knippelberg for help with the Portuguese translations. A huge shout-out to all the romanogers fans on Twitter and tumblr; you guys are the best, and thanks so much for offering up this tropical island prompt to me :-). And, of course, loads of gratitude for my beta-reader, E.
> 
> Thanks so much to the wonderful [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com/) for these gorgeous artworks for "Heat Wave":
> 
> And to the amazing [lbs29](http://lbs29.tumblr.com/) for this badass movie poster:
> 
> And to the wonderful [mrsbarnes1o7](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com//) for this amazing cover art:
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com)!


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